


a madness most discreet

by woodswit



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Forced Marriage, Jon is a Targaryen AU, Marriage of Convenience au, Obsession, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-04-23 23:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19161658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodswit/pseuds/woodswit
Summary: For Teddyduchess and TallTalia on tumblr, who both requested a marriage of convenience AU with similar details.Sansa is shackled and sold to the Targaryens to be Viserys' queen. Jon saves her the only way he can think of--by marrying her, promising her that she need never lay with him if she does not wish.But Jon is not the only man who wishes to save Sansa--and Jon is not the only man for whom Sansa longs.Jon/Sansa/Oberyn, ultimately Jonsa.





	1. a smoke raised with the fume of sighs

> _"There were always in me, two women at least, one woman desperate and bewildered, who felt she was drowning and another who would leap into a scene, as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair..."_
> 
> * * *

**_Jon_ **

Trees as white and knobby as bones forked through the moss and were blurred by mist. Jon slowed his horse behind Daario and Jorah as they came to a halt at the edge of the forest, three dark silhouettes among the pearly mist.

"We should have brought your wolf," Jorah remarked as Jon reached them. The older man, Princess Daenerys’ bloodrider, looked back at Jon over one lean shoulder. He ought to have been with Princess Daenerys in Sunspear but he had been assigned to stay here and protect King Viserys from the Red Viper, that shadowy threat of veiled sunlight and sweet wine and heavy smoke and a glinting blade...

"A wolf chasing a wolf." Daario's voice was sly, teasing. "We won't need Ghost. The girl's never been ahorse before; she won't make it far."

"She's made it this far," Jon countered instead of correcting Daario.

King Viserys had decreed that Sansa Stark—a hostage, a lost girl, and soon to be his queen—would not be allowed her own horse when she had arrived at Dragonstone. It would be too great a risk, he had insisted, and his sister Daenerys, often gentler with women, had been busy ruling south in Sunspear and had not been present to temper Viserys’ mad cruelty. 

None of them knew that Jon had been teaching her to ride in secret, in the weeks since Sansa had been sold to them, and he didn’t see any reason to tell them now.

The girl had been on horseback plenty—nearly every day, in fact, with Jon guiding her in secret silence, clandestine in one of the hidden, damp courtyards of Dragonstone. They never said anything, except for when he quietly gave directions— _here, hold the reins like this_ —or when he whispered to the horse, Lady, in Dothraki, to soothe her. He never met Sansa Stark's eyes, for it seemed rapacious to do so, but he stole little glances at her when he could, felt his hands twitch with some primal urge, and he would always clench his fists and look away when it happened. The older he got, the more he feared any signs of lust, of desire, within him. He looked in the mirror and saw his dead mother every day; he only looked in the mirror so that he could not forget her face; so that he could not be swallowed whole by the dragon within him. 

They had been chasing her since dawn yesterday. Beyond these woods lay the sea, and beyond that, her freedom. If they didn't stop her from crossing the sea, they would lose her. Perhaps to hunger. Perhaps to a fisherman. Perhaps to the Red Viper... 

"Aye, and she's a Stark." Jorah looked meaningfully at Jon. "The Starks know forests. Even their women. Even strange forests.” He nodded to Jon. “I see how you look at the trees, Prince. They calm you—even better if they’re capped with snow. It’s the same wild blood in your veins as in hers.” 

Jon himself was half a Stark. His mother had been a better rider than his father, and it was she who had taught him to hunt and track and ride, before her untimely death.

"We should continue on foot," Jon decided, dropping from his black horse’s saddle. His bow rattled against his quiver. He'd brought his sword too, more out of habit than much else. 

Daario and Jorah both had their bows and swords too. All Jon had to do was get to Sansa Stark before they did.

Daario scoffed at Jon’s suggestion.

"That'll take forever. Come, we've wasted enough time." His horse reared and then Daario dashed into the woods, crashing through bramble. Jorah looked down at Jon thoughtfully, but then evidently agreed with Daario.

"If we find her, I'll sound the horn," Jorah called over his shoulder before disappearing into the dark fog lingering about the tree trunks. Grey frost that crackled wetly and dripping needles of pine and feathers of cedar that left the air tasting dark green in the back of his mouth. The lichen on the trees left everything softer, stranger, paler, like the trees were ghostly dragons dripping with dew. He had not thought this place would feel like home, not until he had tasted the forest, felt its shiver pass through his skin. 

Jon tied his horse at the edge of the forest. He’d always been faster on foot. Perhaps they _should_ have brought Ghost; Jon had learned that the sight of the wolf comforted Viserys’ betrothed, and he knew Ghost would never hurt her—but this was ugly business, and part of him wondered if it was better that they never find Sansa at all. Perhaps it was kindest of all to let hunger, or a fisherman, or even the Red Viper take her. 

Viserys and Daenerys had informed him that since he refused to make a political marriage, he would have to serve his family in _other_ ways. When he had been younger, he had been content with this—with training their armies, with planning their strategies—but something about coming to Westeros to help his family finally take the throne had changed him. 

He was no longer content to do as told. 

The mist lay thick on him, soaking him through his riding leathers and down to his smallclothes; wet tendrils of hair escaped the tie holding his hair back and he felt them tickling his forehead. He crept silently, melting into the shadows as Lyanna had taught him.

There was a clear path of trampled sticks and mud and horseshoe prints—not leading north like Daario and Jorah had assumed. Jon knelt before them and touched them. They were fresh.

Either she had utterly no sense of direction, or she was trying to trick them, and he had learned, through weeks of watching Viserys’ betrothed, of learning her ways, that both were equally possible. He rose and continued on, just as carefully as he had before.  Up ahead there was a smudge of darkness within the mist, the merest hint of a shadow—was it the Stark girl in her cloak?

Silent as a cat he made his way, his breathing shallow. If he could surprise her, maybe there wouldn't have to be a struggle.

_If I do not catch her,_ he reminded himself, _someone else will._

Someone crueler. 

Someone deadlier. 

Daario had a warrior’s thirst for blood and Jorah would always do as told. Viserys would take the northern girl’s attempt at escape as insult, and Viserys never overcame insults—real or perceived. 

A twig snapped underfoot and the shadow rose and emerged and let out a scream, and then came barreling towards him. Jon leapt to the side just as it was about to trample him, and he pivoted on his heel and, slightly breathlessly, watched it run off.

It was the horse that the Stark girl had stolen—not Lady. It was a dull grey and still had its saddle; she must have released it and was going on foot now. So she was trying to trick them after all. He wasn't surprised; she had had a reputation for cleverness and wit at court. He came to the area where the horse had been lingering; it had been grazing on a patch of grass, and he found no tracks.

For a moment he was outwitted, but then he saw the fallen log: moss had been smeared off it, the bark scraped away. So she'd hopped off the horse onto the log, then scrambled along it to avoid leaving footprints...

Sure enough at the end of the log there were footprints, small and slipper-shaped, in the mud.

He had her.

**_Sansa_ **

He was so close. She'd heard him spook the horse, then gasp as the horse ran by. She heard him now, his boots sinking into the mud, the soft rush of cloth against leather as he moved. Jon looked different from the other Targaryens—dark-haired and slender and feral, rather than silver-haired and regal—and he moved differently, too. Quick, light footsteps and subtle movements. Flashes of dark; the haunting flutter of raven wings; a sudden silence ringing snowy with the absence of that flash of dark before. Flashing and beating one with her heart, dashing from tree to tree like a strange, masked spirit. 

Sansa was breathing shallow, holding still as possible, but she couldn't stop shaking. She hadn't had time to run and get the sack of supplies that she had been amassing and preparing for the last few days; it was either wait until the next right moment came (it might have never come) or go as she was: clad in silks, with no food or water or means of warmth.

It had not been her brightest moment, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Dizzy with the first shot to freedom that she had seen in years—since the day she had fled King’s Landing for the Vale—she had flung herself to the stables and hadn't looked back.

Why had she done it?

A twig snapped. She heard a rush of breath.

Jon Targaryen—the King’s nephew, who refused to take his Targaryen name and insisted on keeping his northern name—was about to find her.

She'd seen him dismount and enter the forest, and then watched two of the King’s most loyal riders thunder past without notice, for they had been so convinced she would have headed north. She hadn't had time to think, or to get away: she had only time to drop off her horse, hide her tracks, and wriggle into her hiding space. It was a nook beneath a gnarled tree, sheltered by bony roots, a gouge in the hardened ground nearly beneath the trunk of the tree. Her yellow silks piled around her like some strange mushroom, her hair wild and tangled as bramble. Diamond tears slipping down skin that had turned to steel. 

_He_ was behind her, following her footprints.

Sansa bit her lip so hard it nearly bled to stop herself from letting out a sob: a sob of resignation, of grief, of frustration. She had come so close to the sea. Even in this wood she could taste the salt in the air. She had been tasting her freedom. 

It would have been less painful if they'd caught her at the castle gates. To come this close was unbearable, torture. She wished she had died in King’s Landing so her torment might have ended but now she felt too old to die; she had seen too many chances for hope. 

She heard him skid down along the ravine just as she had mere moments ago; heard him right himself and crunch through leaves. He wasn't even bothering to be silent anymore, because he had to know he had her now. 

He had been kind to her, soft grey eyes that made her think of home and the gentlest hands guiding Lady round and round that tiny courtyard until she could guide the horse on her own; they had never discussed it only he’d caught her crying in her rooms and the next day had led her to the sweet white horse, as though her happiness had mattered to him; yet she could never allow herself to forget that he had merely been making her cage more comfortable and that he was hunting her now—and he was the _best_ hunter. She’d known it, known it even when his gentle, lovely hands had been leading her horse round the courtyard that he was a dangerous man, a terrible man, a killer and a conqueror.

She would not cry. She was a Stark, the blood of Winterfell. She would not cry.

A lean figure all in black circled the tree and came before her, then crouched down, looking into her hiding space.

**_Jon_ **

The Stark girl was shaking, pale, her bright blue eyes wet with pain. She was clad in yellow silks stained with mud and ripped by thorns, her copper hair turned wild from the mist. As he came to kneel before her, she bit her lip and closed her eyes, squeezing out tears. The enormous tree roots that sheltered her looked silvery and white as a bony hand held over her, protecting her from the rain. 

"I'm sorry," he said before he could stop himself. Her eyes opened in surprise.

He had never liked hunting for sport; much as he enjoyed the pleasure of hitting a target with a bow, and much as he could enjoy hunting for food, he had never found pleasure in chasing something vulnerable and helpless. There was no joy to be had in hunting down something that could not defend itself against you, and little honor in retrieving something that did not belong to you. Sansa Stark had been stolen, after all, by the odd man named Baelish who had sold her to Viserys. She did not belong to Viserys, or to Baelish, or to anyone.

_We all enjoy what we’re good at,_ his aunt Daenerys had once said. 

_I don’t,_ he’d said back, and in silence had watched her drink the entire glass of Arbor Gold before her in one drink, her head tilted back but her burning violet eyes on him the whole time. 

"You're not that sorry," she replied, her voice shaking but still hard, brittle. "You still hunted me. The other bloodriders might've never found me."

That rankled a little.

"Be glad it's me," he told her. He watched her gaze settle on the bow strapped to his chest, the coil of rope at his belt. "I won't use them," he said.

"Of course not," she said dully. "You wouldn't want to bring back damaged property."

They regarded each other, their breaths clouding in the damp, chill air. 

“If it’s not me, it’ll be others. Maybe Daario. Maybe someone worse,” he warned her. He watched her jaw tremble as she hung her head and held out her wrists. Baelish had not brought her in ropes to Viserys but Viserys had had her chained, initially: golden bracelets linked to the four-poster bed of the room they’d left her in, shackled round her wrists, that had made Jon sick. He had had to tread carefully with Viserys in order to have them removed: he had had to appeal to Viserys’ thin, shivering fear of Daenerys, had had to speak of the Martells who had been destroyed by Viserys’ hand, all save for Oberyn who remained at large. The Red Viper, that bloody serpent that haunted Viserys' deepest paranoia.  _What do you think the man whose family you chained and killed, the man who vowed to free everyone you’ve enslaved, will do to you when he sees how you’ve chained Sansa Stark?_ It had taken days of careful words, of the right balance of guilt and flattery, to have those horrible things removed from Sansa Stark's slender wrists. 

“Go on,” she said flatly. “Tie me up. Do as your uncle commands you.” 

That rankled more than a little. 

“I’m not my uncle’s dog, and I’d never tie up a human being,” Jon said, rising from his crouch. Sansa stared up at him. “And I thought I’d taught you better how to cover your tracks on horseback,” he insisted, and watched her look away, blinking back tears. 

**Sansa**

Jon Targaryen was looking down at her, brows knit together, as the distant sound of horses crashing through trees became more apparent. Her heart leapt into her throat; they were going to take her back to Viserys, and then, suddenly, Jon was crouching down before her, taking out the rope. 

“You just said you’d never tie up a human being,” she choked, as he took her wrists. In rough hands he pulled out the rope and began looping it around her mud-smeared, bruised wrists. They still bore marks from Viserys’ golden chains. 

“I’ve got an idea, but you’ll need to play along,” he was saying quickly, under his breath, their heads bowed together. His touch was gentle though his movements were rough. “Viserys will give me Winterfell, as it was my mother’s, but it’s yours. It belongs to you. You’re the last Stark.” 

He paused and their eyes met over her half-bound wrists. There was urgency in his soft grey eyes. His eyes had been the only kind ones since she’d been taken to Dragonstone. She could see him thinking, trying to put together a plan quickly, as the sounds of the King’s men grew ever louder. “You’re damaged property,” he said suddenly, mirroring her words from only moments before. “I had my way with you to punish you for escaping, and now you’re not suitable for Viserys. Daenerys will suggest I marry you, and then you’ll come to Winterfell with me.” He swallowed. “I don’t care about titles, or land—it will be your home, and you can run it as you wish.” 

Sansa could only stare. 

“But—but won’t your uncle be angry with you?” 

Jon rose from his crouch, pulling her with him. 

“We’ll find out,” he said, not looking at her. She stumbled to her feet, for her legs were still shaking from exertion, and her bound wrists were hurting her balance, and knocked into Jon slightly. She stepped back, breathless, as he looked back at her, gripping the rope. 

There was a high flush to his pale skin from the cool air, from the chase. His dark curly hair, normally pulled back so tightly, was coming free of its ties and was made damp and wild by the mist. Those kind grey eyes were lingering on the lines of her face, as they had when she had first been thrown down before Viserys as an offering; as they had when Jon had led her in secret through the darkened halls of Dragonstone to teach her to ride a horse. That first day in the terrible throne room of Dragonstone, she had felt the granite beneath her chapped palms and looked up in flashes, silver hair and a beaky nose and a desperate, acidic cruelty—and soft sweet darkness beside him; she’d had the impression of a woman’s mouth and the eyes of the Stranger, and when she’d looked up she’d understood his face no better. “You need to be more mussed,” he said suddenly. He reached forward and yanked her hair free from its elaborate style; it had barely held up during her travels, but he mussed it further, and his touch made her scalp and neck tingle. He smudged her cheeks with mud as she frantically reached down and tore her gown at the hem; he tore her gown at the neckline, and she struggled to breathe for the feel of his touch. Rough fingers against her breast; eyes averted and pretty lips parted. 

When they were satisfied, he turned from her abruptly, and began pulling her along. Sansa halted, and the force jerked him backward, so that he had to look back at her once more.

“He could kill you for this,” she whispered, as Jorah and Daario crashed through the bramble in her periphery. “He might kill you for this—he probably will kill you for this. You’re his successor, after his children, and I was the key to his children.” Jon did not let his gaze stray from hers, but she saw him swallow. He looked about to speak, but then Daario skidded to a halt before them, and Jon looked away. Sansa bit her lip, hard, to make herself begin to cry in earnest. 

“What’ve you done, Prince Jon?” Jorah asked in horror. Jon looked away, pushing back at his wild hair.

“I taught her a lesson,” he said flatly. “We take what is ours, with fire and blood. She’ll know better next time.” 

Jorah was looking almost sadly at Jon, but Daario was studying Sansa with something like interest. 

“How was she, Prince?” he asked, never taking his eyes from Sansa—particularly from the way her gown was slipping off her shoulder. 

“Tight as a virgin and just as weepy,” Jon said carelessly, and hearing such cruelty from his lips—his kind lips—made her want to cry, so she did, for it could only make their act more believable. “I told you I’d find her first,” he added, and he jerked, hard, on the rope binding her. "I'll take her back to my horse. This one belongs to me now."


	2. being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes

  _You cannot save people; you can only love them._

* * *

  _ **Sansa**_

The journey back to Dragonstone was inaccessible to Sansa: she had had the impression of clutching Prince Jon’s cloak to herself as they rode, his scent wrapped round her shoulders and his chest hard against her back; then the salty darkness of Dragonstone’s cavernous halls; flickering gold on wet surfaces and fingertips that seemed forever caked with salt; Jon leading her, warrior’s grip tight, through cramped halls with only their footfalls and their breath and the vague wonder of whether his uncle might kill him for this. Viserys was no sweet, doting uncle; nor was Jon the nephew he ought to have been toward Viserys: a passive, sycophantic panderer. The qualities that the king so prized in his general for conquest would not go appreciated in the game of political marriage.

This might end in blood.

Why was he doing this for her?

A braver woman might’ve demanded to know how Jon planned to handle this—or demanded to know _why_ Jon was doing this—but Sansa kept silent as she always had. Silence was her greatest coin in the game of survival, and bravery did not buy you life. And in spite of it all she still wanted her life—it was the only thing she had left and she had had it for just long enough that it was precious to her.

Even Prince Jon, who wanted to help her—who was taking great risk to help her—was her enemy, and any and every word she uttered could be used as a weapon against her later. She’d learned well to be silent. What might seem like kindness now would inevitably incur payment later; there were no real heroes, only flattering sunlight and honeyed words.

Outside of the throne room, Jon halted and dropped her wrist. He rounded on her with force. A scrape of wet, ruined slipper against salty stone; the cold hard rock against her back. He smelled like leather and the singular scent of his skin, and he was very close as he pinned her in place, strong hands gripping her upper arms. His wild curls briefly grazed her forehead.

“Don’t talk,” he warned in a voice coarse and rough. Sansa swallowed her feelings. She wondered if her eyes paled of color when she did this. She always pictured the blood draining from her when she put on her mask—a fountain of blood, pouring like wine somewhere no one else could go. She raised her chin with dignity.

“Shall I weep?”

Grey eyes lingered on her, tracing her lines. He might not have been so remarkable a man: he had a drawn, weary face and flinty grey eyes and a mouth that she had never seen truly smile; slender arms and svelte shoulders that faded in and out of mind’s eye easily—except. _Except_. Was it the perfume of royalty that clung to him? Was it the wisp of smoking danger: _he is a conqueror_? What was it that made Prince Jon Targaryen so very remarkable to look at? What was it that could make such an unremarkable man command a room merely by walking into it? Viserys and Daenerys prided themselves on finery and titles and grand sweeping declarations, but they would never make the impression that their nephew could and they knew it.

“…Aye, weep—but quietly,” he breathed at last. “He knows you ran, so there’s no use pretending you’re terrified that he won’t want you any longer. Best that you seem broken.”

She nodded, studied his lashes, and breathed deeply in something like relief when he pulled away at last.

“Do you think it will work?” she asked his lean back.

Jon said nothing. He breathed something—was it _sorry_ —then gave such a sharp tug on the ropes binding her that she let out a coppery cry and stumbled into the throne room after him.

Obsidian and torches; Viserys’ pale hair standing out against the rock behind him. Uncomfortable silence; an unhappy court. It was not hard to let tears slip down her cheeks as she heard Prince Jon drop the rope, heard it pool on the stone.

“What is the meaning of this, nephew? My bride looks attacked by bandits.” Viserys’ unctuous voice was brittle under pressure. He sounded like he was trying to joke, but the paranoia was closing in on him, and the pitch was too high, too unsteady. Sansa risked a look up at Prince Jon: shoulders back, standing taller than she’d ever seen him; he was moving with a treacherous, cat-quick grace. Emphasizing that he was a warrior, that he was a man to be feared. Sheathed sword glinting in its plain but fine sheath in even the torchlight as he moved. He did not need the Targaryen crest for his enemies to know he could breathe fire.

“I caught her in the forest, your Grace,” the prince informed him, in the short, clipped tones of a military man. “And found time to teach her a lesson, too. She’s not likely to try running again after _that_.”

She did not know that Prince Jon could lie. Even to hear such cruelty from his lips made her heart twist uncomfortably; she did not even like to think that he had heard other men speak in such a way and had absorbed it. It was better to think of him as pure, as innocent, as untouched—a laughable fallacy, to want such things from a conqueror. She wanted to think of the man who had quietly led her on horseback round that damp courtyard so many times in gentle, mournful silence—not the man who had organized and led one of the most successful sieges of the last century. She kept her eyes lowered, felt the tears like warm saltwater on her lips, her chin.

“A _lesson_?” Viserys was alert.

“Aye, a lesson. For running, for daring to think she doesn’t belong to you.” Jon sounded like he was bragging; she could picture his hands on his hips as he looked back at his handiwork admiringly.

_**Jon** _

Viserys had always feared him, feared that Jon might suddenly rise up and take the throne for himself. The lines between him and Viserys and Daenerys had been held taut by their fear that he might become one of them—that he might choose to pursue the throne. He had been their family only insofar that he had no interest in the throne. He was useful to keep around; they were _advised_ to keep him around—better keep him close than let him stray, let him get ideas about gaining power. He had known this all his life and had not mourned it—he was a pawn, just as Sansa was—but now was the real test: just how much did Viserys fear him...and how far could he push that fear?

Viserys’ pale eyes met his. Sansa was shivering and weeping behind him. Jon was careful not to look away from Viserys. He watched all the little signs of his uncle’s infamous temper rising.

“I wanted a _virgin_ bride,” Viserys began in a low, shivering voice—the beginning of a tantrum. Jon scoffed, a harsh scrape intended to mar Viserys’ skin. He smirked at Viserys as though it were obvious. He held out his palms. He wondered, his blood pounding in his ears, if this was going too far.

“She’d run again, your Grace. Forgive me, but she’s out of her mind. A damn fool. Virgin or not, if she runs again, you’ve got no bride at all.” He shrugged. “What does it matter if she’s a virgin? No one else need know she’s tainted. She’s still a Stark—better have her in the family than let someone else snatch up Winterfell. If you get rid of her, Winterfell’ll be for the taking, and no northerner will be fool enough to care for the girl’s innocence when there’s Winterfell on the table.”

Jorah had entered the throne room during Jon’s little speech, and he prowled past Jon and Sansa, his gaze lingering on Sansa a bit too shrewdly for Jon’s liking, before he continued toward the throne.

“She’s been befouled,” Viserys snapped, twin blotches on his cheeks. “The greatest ruler in the history of Westeros cannot have a befouled bride, and mine own blood has done the befouling.”

“But Prince Jon is right, your Grace,” Jorah reasoned suddenly, as he knelt on the stone steps before Viserys in exaltation. “I found a sack of food hidden in her rooms. She’s been planning on running, and she’ll do it again. She’s hardly worth the trouble.”

“Yes, and now my foolish nephew has defiled her so we can hardly trade her,” said Viserys, violet eyes flashing. “What am I to do with this stupid woman you’ve raped, nephew?”

This moment was crucial—and Jorah could either help or hurt his cause. Jon rubbed at the back of his neck and cast a look back at Sansa as though considering it. He waited…waited… He could not be the one to suggest it, but to leave it too long…

“Princess Daenerys would suggest he marry the girl,” Jorah remarked then, rising from his knees and turning to stand beside Viserys. “He dishonored her by raping her—let him reclaim his honor by marrying her, and we can find you a more obedient bride, a better bride.”

Jon had to fight to not let out a breath of relief. He pretended to think on it. He grimaced.

“I don’t want to marry,” he said flatly to Jorah. “My place is on the battlefield.”

“We’re at peace, now that King Viserys has won,” Jorah countered easily. “With no battlefield, you have no place.”

Viserys watched this volley between them. Daenerys would have had something to say about this, but Viserys was not good for much more than spitting out reminders of his birthright. Jon met Jorah’s eyes calmly. He wondered if Jorah saw through him.

“There’ll be wars soon enough. Peace never lasts,” Jon said carelessly.

But Viserys was thinking. Jon’s mouth was dry and he had the most dire urge to fidget, but he kept still.

“But until then—what use is there for you?” Jorah pressed.

“What good would marrying the girl _possibly_ do?” Jon asked Viserys disgustedly, gesturing back to Sansa without looking at her. “I’m your war strategist. Your master of war. I’m no lord.”

“Winterfell,” Viserys interrupted in a daze. He was staring at Jon. “You said yourself we don’t want anyone to snatch up Winterfell, but I can’t possibly be there to hold it. You’ll marry the girl and rule from Winterfell.”

_**Sansa** _

Sansa had wanted to thank Jon, but there hadn’t been a chance. From the moment she’d been dragged from the throne room she had been busy with preparations for the wedding: a dress of red and black with silver chains had been fashioned for her, less grand than the one made for her wedding to Viserys but still dripping with splendor though it had a certain brutality to it. She had once imagined a wedding gown of silver and blue in honor of her father and mother.

Dresses were made and a household was assembled, for no one was at Winterfell now save a few guards posted to ensure no northerners got the wrong idea and lunged on the place. Maids and cooks were sent ahead with strict instructions to ready the place for Prince Jon Targaryen and his new bride.

Sansa had not seen her home since she was a child, and no one had lived there for many years. In her dreams she saw ruined stone, crumbling parapets; blood red vines choking the life from everything and cutting through stone. She had wanted nothing more than to go home for so many years, but now that she was faced with it, she was terrified. It would be filled with ghosts—and she and Prince Jon, this enigmatic and dangerous man, would be locked inside it together.

It was on the day before their wedding that she heard the gossip. Her two maids were in the antechamber, packing the last of her new things, and Sansa was hidden in her bedroom, chained to the bed. They hadn’t realized the door was left open a crack.

“…Finally caught him—”

“—If you ask me, he _wanted_ to be caught.” This was the older, more portly one that reminded Sansa painfully of the Septa who had attended her in her childhood, in another life in Winterfell. She heard the rustle of fabrics. “The Prince is a fine hunter—no one’s questioning that—but this is the Red Viper. Not some common sellsword.”

“Why’d he _want_ to get caught by his enemy, Alys? That’s stupid talk, that is.”

“Brings him closer to the king,” the older woman decreed.

“But I _saw_ them bring him in. Prince Jon had him in chains himself. Saw the man himself throw the Red Viper in the dungeons. He’ll be in the dungeons until he dies—”

“Aye,” the woman, Alys, lowered her voice, and Sansa had to strain to hear, “but Prince Jon brought the northern girl back in chains too, didn’t he?”

“You think—”

“—I’ve no right to _think,_ ” she said loudly, now. “All’s I know is that it seems a bit odd that we didn’t catch the Red Viper ’til now. And you know he’s vowed to save _her._ Not that I feel sorry for her. I’d not much mind being forced to marry Prince Jon; there’s summat about him that makes me quake. Almost scared but in a good way, like. …Nor’d I mind being saved by the Red Viper, truth be told.”

“I heard he’s dead handsome,” the younger one giggled. “I do like them Dornish men,” she confessed.

Sansa longed to hear more, but the voices faded and the heavy door to her chambers—her prison—swung shut with a wooden thud, and she was left alone to ponder the image of Prince Jon—a man painted in shades of grey—warily leading one of the most dangerous men left alive in Westeros in chains through the courtyard to the bowels of Dragonstone. That Oberyn, of duels and danger, was so far removed from the Oberyn she had known: well-read and witty; the only person besides Margaery who had deigned to speak to her in an overwhelming feast for Joffrey. He had sidled over to her, had flirted with her in a way that made her certain he had no intentions, had poured her Arbor Gold and had deconstructed  _Florian and Jonquil_ with her until long after the other guests had drifted away, drunk or dazed or disappointed. To remember his kindness was to harm herself. She at once felt ashamed for how his attention had delighted her, and yet also inflamed by the notion of a man who could be both powerful and kind. 

She was not nearly silly enough to imagine he had allowed himself to be captured all to save her...and yet...knowing he was so near... 

She could not let herself trust Prince Jon, no matter how kind he seemed...but Oberyn was her friend, perhaps the last living friend she could claim. Sansa studied the chains that imprisoned her.

_**Jon** _

Jon had not survived this long on being a fool—though many thought him a fool given how little he spoke. Buried deep within him in some part of him that was still an adolescent, he resented this notion: that words were like currency and the more you spoke the more you had. He had always thought it was just the opposite.

And Oberyn Martell—the infamous Red Viper—did not speak much.

He’d been handsome, recently, but being on the run had melted away whatever mask Oberyn Martell had constructed: when Jon had first encountered him years earlier, he had seemed like a man who knew how to take his pleasures and who took little seriously. All golden fabric and white teeth flashing and dark, clever eyes always glimmering with a joke at your expense. The man before him was who Oberyn Martell truly was: a killer, a man to be feared, a man haunted by the path that destiny had laid down before him. He sat slouched before Jon, dark hair turned silver by the grey light coming in beams through the dungeon’s narrow window.

A guard holding the key waited outside. Jon had locked himself in this cell with the Red Viper. He had not gotten this far by being a fool, by imagining himself to be any more than what he was.

Even in the dark, the Red Viper’s eyes shone brightly. He raised them to Jon. Before,a clever play on words might have filled the silence, but now the Red Viper merely regarded Jon like another obstacle on his path.

There was no point in making him talk. The Red Viper was clever—perhaps cleverer than Jon. And Jon had gotten this far by respecting his limits and seeing his own faults. He was no fool; he was no Targaryen in that way. He did not think himself a god, and he did not think himself special. He could readily accept that interrogation was pointless—

And yet—

“Why her?”

He’d always wished for a stronger voice, a deeper voice, but this was the one he had and he’d not pretend otherwise. Oberyn Martell lowered his gaze, smirked at his bound hands, but the smirk soon faded. When he looked back at Jon, he was as inaccessible as Sansa Stark.

“Her?” A hint of a clever smile. Here was a man who could write poetry in the sand, who had once strolled through gardens garbed in golden cloth, who drank Arbor Gold like Jon drank water. There was a ghost of that man still lingering about Oberyn but Jon would be a fool to fall prey to that man; the Red Viper was poised in the shadows behind him, waiting, waiting, waiting…

“Aye, her. Sansa Stark.”

Another flash of a smile.

“I’ve heard I owe you tidings,” he said, an accent of spices and sunlight and heavy smoke in a red-curtained room. “You’re to marry her.”

Jon leaned against the damp wall, folded his arms, heard his leathers crinkle with the movement.

“How do you know her?”

As far as Jon could tell, the Red Viper had informants at Dragonstone—for it was no coincidence that he had been ‘caught’—Jon bore no illusions that this was due to his own skill—mere days after Viserys had chosen to wed Sansa Stark to Jon. There was no point in identifying and dragging out these informants now; that would come to light eventually and tragically, in Jon’s experience. What was more important, at this stage, was determining the nature of this connection. Was it reciprocated? And were any other Martells involved?

The Red Viper’s smile was fond, and Jon did not know what to make of that. He looked away selfishly, as though to meet Jon's eyes would let him see the memory he was reliving.

“King’s Landing. Joffrey’s nameday.” Simple words that allowed smoke to fill their meaning, sumptuous and ephemeral. The Red Viper laughed softly, sadly. “Just a child, no?”

Jon thought of Sansa Stark curled beneath the bony white tree roots, her golden gown ballooning around her in heaps of silk like faerie spells. Tears in her ocean eyes. Oberyn’s eyes were on him now. Jon swallowed.

“Aye, a child,” he agreed quietly.

Viserys had grabbed him after it had been decided. His grip was hardly strong but Jon’s heart had pounded in his chest. His survival was predicated on how well he balanced Viserys’ ego and Viserys’ fear, and in that moment he had thought he might have tipped the balance the wrong way. Viserys’ pale upper lip was moist, and his eyes were wild.

 _Heirs,_ he had hissed. _If she bears you no heirs within the year, I’ll kill you both._

The Red Viper was studying him. The collar of Jon’s tunic was making him feel too warm, even in this damp, chill place. “It matters not,” he informed the man, “how you know her, or why you wanted to save her. We leave for Winterfell on the morrow—and you will remain here. You can't save her.”

He signaled for the guard to let him out, never turning his back on the Red Viper. Heavy clangs, the shifting of gears within the lock; then Jon was mercifully on the other side of the bars, yet he did not feel free of the Red Viper yet. He nodded to the guard, and started down the corridor—but the Red Viper’s voice halted him in his tracks.

“It is sweet,” Martell began. “I did not know there was a Targaryen with a heart. It is almost romantic,” he mused.

Jon did not turn back to look at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to keep walking just yet, either. “You want to save her, too. You have not fooled me, prince.”


	3. being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going with book!Jon characterization here. He's a bit more crafty, a bit more morally grey. More fun, right?

> _"From the beginning life played a terrible conjurer's trick on me...so that when I hear love, I am not sure it is love."_

* * *

 

_**Jon** _

The Sept on Dragonstone capped off a jutting ridge that overlooked the sea. Even with hundreds of candles lit and the doors shut tight against the high winds, the Sept was so drafty that it felt they were still outside.

"It is a shame that Princess Daenerys will not be present," Jorah said, as he and Jon regarded the empty Sept before them. 

Today Jon was to marry Sansa Stark. He'd not seen her yet, but he'd heard talk of the dress that had been made to celebrate her induction into the Targaryen house. Dragonstone, which had seemed ghostly and scarce of life since they had arrived, was nigh on busy with preparations—that hidden sense of activity and life that you get just before Spring. "She would be pleased to see you marrying."

Jon did not reply immediately; he turned away from the seven-pointed star at the head of the Sept and away from Jorah. Jorah often seemed to think he had some prodigious skill in getting the truth from Jon; he seemed to think he could 'handle' him…always probing with comments that were intended to draw a reaction, always thinking he was hitting something sore within Jon, always thinking he had uncovered some little gem… But Jorah rarely struck a chord in Jon and his comments usually revealed more to Jon than they did to Jorah—not to mention hassled him in the process. Jon disliked that someone would think he could be so malleable—he didn't discourage the notion, because it occasionally came in useful, but he resented it all the same. What did Jorah, sycophant and follower, presume to know of Jon's mind, of his heart?

"Dany is pleased any time Viserys has something taken away from him," Jon quipped, as they left the Sept together. Gulls called overhead as their boots crunched on the rocky soil. In a few hours' time, as twilight seeped through the mist, he would be walking up this path with the northern girl. He heard Jorah follow on light feet and reminded himself not to resent the man too much; he had been necessary in achieving this outcome, after all.

"You make her sound so childish, but she would be a better ruler than her brother,” Jorah called as he hastened after Jon.

Jon did not care.

He could easily imagine the smoking ruins of the Red Keep in the distance, beyond the corpse-like silhouette of Dragonstone in the mist. They might not have ravaged all of King's Landing, but they had certainly broken its people. Until he had watched Baelor's Sept burn, he had thought they were doing good, thought they were right. 

Overthrowing the old regime was right—of that much, Jon was certain—but putting a new regime in its place… His aunt and uncle's choices often seemed strikingly similar to that of the Lannisters, and as they had marched into the decimated throne room of the Red Keep after they had conquered it—it was still being rebuilt from what had been done to it, what Jon and his armies had done to it—he had realized that to win a battle was only the beginning of a bloody fight.

"Perhaps she would,” he said at last, as they fell into step, harsh winds whipping their hair.

"Have you made any progress with Martell?"

"Progress?"

They were nearing the castle, and Jon studied this eastern-facing wall. 

He knew the northern girl's window; he could see it from here. She'd been chained again as punishment for running, and Jon had not dared to push Viserys any further. _If she bears you no heirs within the year, I’ll kill you both._ Her window was dark but he knew she was in there, perhaps still chained to her bed or being readied for the ceremony by her handmaids. It was easier to think of her as the northern girl right now, because as the day wore on he had been realizing, increasingly, that marrying someone was a lot like conquering a city. Perhaps he had won—but now he had the rest of time to contend with.

He was not sure he could be any better a husband than Viserys or Daenerys could be a ruler.

"Has he told you anything? He must have informants here—“

It annoyed Jon that Jorah had reached the same conclusion, though it was, of course, obvious.

"The truth'll come out," Jon interrupted. They had reached the gate to the main courtyard, and Jon faced Jorah now. The older man looked almost amused. "What?" Jon asked roughly.

"His Grace had the idea that Martell should attend your wedding," Jorah said at last. Jon's tongue was thick in his mouth and he tried to swallow around it. "His idea of a jape."

Well, Viserys had never been funny.

_ **Sansa** _

The wax used to shape her hair was not dissimilar to the wax that the Lannisters had used to shape her hair, but it had been some time since the Lannisters had shaped her hair. Her scalp had grown used to the gentle freedom of northern styles, so that now the elaborate braids that traced down her skull like snakes made her scalp tingle and itch in places she could not reach. She was used to stilling her hand, of course, and used to fighting the urge to fidget. _It’s only for today,_ she told herself.

They had styled her like Daenerys: harsh braids leading to flowing waves down her back; daringly-cut red and black silk with militaristic touches of silver chain. The Targaryens had wed one another for thousands of years and she wondered if Prince Jon would like her better if she looked like his aunt. He was, she reminded herself, her enemy—no matter how many times he had led her round that courtyard and no matter how he had rescued her from Viserys, he had always been and would always be an enemy. He would expect payment later—men always did—and she would be a fool to think she had escaped danger.

_There’s summat about him that makes me quake,_ the handmaid had said, and she’d not been wrong. _Almost scared but in a good way, like._ She had not been wrong about that either, though Sansa would not dwell on _that_.

The day passed quickly, and all too soon it was twilight and, therefore, time to marry Prince Jon.

The procession to the Sept was lined with candles. Viserys led her along the rocky path, with his meager court smattered along it like stones, dressed in their finest and looking ruffled by the high sea winds. The Sept up ahead glowed like a beating heart. Prince Jon—her almost-husband—was waiting there for her inside, and he would cloak her in a Targaryen cloak to match her gown, and then they would set off for Winterfell. 

The darkening evening could not light up the seven-pointed star the way it ought; when Sansa entered with Viserys, the place was almost too dark to see. Silhouetted against the dim red star was that remarkable man himself—the prince, the conqueror; her savior—Jon. His slender back was to her, his head bowed. He looked as though readying himself for battle. When the door swung shut behind them he looked back over his shoulder at last. 

In the benches behind Jon were people scattered like marbles, but one hunched figure, chained and bookended by Jorah Mormont and Daario, caught her attention, made her breath hitch. Over a shoulder, swarthy clever eyes flicked to her, and Sansa was sent back in time to that heady evening: Joffrey’s nameday, when Oberyn Martell had flirted with her. He looked so different now that she might not have recognized him, had she not known he was here. Gaunt face, hungry eyes... 

“He vowed to save you,” Viserys murmured as his grip tightened on her arm painfully. “I could not have hoped for a better audience—now the Red Viper gets to watch as my nephew makes his silly oath an impossibility forever. Jon's had you in the flesh; now he'll have you in name, too.”

Rough hands gripping her upper arms; the cold, damp stone at her back... Prince Jon roughly tying her wrists together... 

“What will you do to him?” Sansa whispered, stilling her features as they passed Oberyn’s row. 

There was a pause, as Viserys passed Sansa to the altar. Jon was not looking at her, but looking ahead, his face a mask. The weary Septon was not looking at them, either. 

“Whatever I want,” Viserys said smugly, too-loud, his voice echoing in the Sept. “Just as my nephew has done and shall do with you whatever he likes. We take what is ours, you stupid woman.” 

He threw back his head and laughed, then halted abruptly when his laughter bounced off the walls and was not followed by the laughter of anyone else. Prince Jon only now looked back to Viserys. 

“This is a place of worship, your Grace,” he admonished coolly, his chilly grey gaze freezing both Sansa and Viserys. 

“This is a place that belongs to me. I am as much as any god, nephew, and do not forget it,” Viserys shot back, and he turned from Jon and went to stand in the front row. 

The incense was headier here; with the flames around them, the place wasn’t as drafty, and it was harder to breathe for it. Sansa stood beside Jon, dizzy and scared. 

Would Prince Jon take what was his? Was he her savior or was he merely Viserys’ adversary? She had heard rumors that Daenerys and Viserys were enemies; where did their nephew stand? Had he done this as a political move against his bloodline, or for other reasons? 

As the Septon droned, Sansa felt that frosty gaze on her. Out of the corners of their eyes, their gazes locked for one, two, three beats of her heart, then Prince Jon’s gaze slipped away from her again. Yet for a moment he had made her quake with fear but in a good way, and she wondered—as she had often, in her dark moments, of which there were many—if she had brought this endless cycle of captivity upon herself somehow. She had wanted Joffrey, had she not? And some part of her, secret and hidden, had been if not desirous of Baelish then at least curious. He was the first man she had become close with who could have had her, and though he had been awful, done awful things, the girl in her had wondered at his musky scent mixed with the scent of mint, had noticed how it felt to brush against him. Did she want what was wrong for her? Was she somehow, cosmically, asking for this life of pain? 

The Septon blurred before her as her eyes stung with tears. Perhaps she deserved all of this. After all, she was the last surviving Stark—she should have died with the rest of her family; she should never have survived…

But then Prince Jon’s hand covered hers. Their hands were tied together now, and she met his grey gaze again. She did not know what to think; all she knew was that she despised herself, and that whatever Prince Jon chose to do with her was what she deserved. 

And yet—

—His fingers flexed, so briefly, over hers. They were married now, and their bound hands raised above their heads. And then the silk was untied and it was time for Jon to cloak her in Targaryen colors, and they faced each other. She watched him draw in a breath, as though steeling himself, and she thought, _no._

He was not like any man she had known before. 

She watched him bite his pretty lip as he unfastened the cloak and swung it around, so that it draped over her shoulders. The Septon was still speaking but when Jon cloaked her, his chin brushed her forehead, rough stubble scraping her skin, and she therefore heard none of the words. 

When they turned to face their few wedding guests, she could not help but seek Oberyn. His face was ashen, mournful, but he was looking at Prince Jon, not her. The Targaryen prince took her hand once more as they left the altar. Her heart was a mess, and if not for the prince’s guiding hand she might have stumbled as they descended the chipped marble steps. She could not help but name, in her head, all of the people who had suffered in her stead...now Oberyn's name would be added to the long, long list...

When they left the Sept, it was dark. Prince Jon had insisted that they leave in the cover of night, so she would have to immediately change for travel. The winds were harsh and salty, and the sparse courtiers’ eyes unfriendly, without well-wishes for the newly married couple. 

“What will they do to Oberyn?” she whispered to Prince Jon now as they walked. She heard Viserys’ high, unctuous voice behind them, followed by Daario’s scoff and the scrape and rattle of pulling the chained Oberyn along the path. 

Prince Jon did not look at her. 

“We leave within the hour,” he said instead. 

Sansa stared ahead. She had been a selfish fool, but she was not so foolish as to not see the window of opportunity before her. In the chaos of preparing the wheelhouse for their departure, she would be very, very briefly forgotten and alone. 

She wondered how much Prince Jon was on her side. It would be so foolish to hope for an alliance, but he’d done this much, and the hand holding hers was not greedy or even expectant. Her heart began to pound. Was she grossly wrong...? Was he truly offering...?

“I assume that the King’s attendants Jorah and Daario will be busy,” she said instead, blandly. 

“Aye, the whole of Dragonstone will be. His Grace is having a feast for us—though we will not be there for it,” Prince Jon replied, just as bland. “Every guard in the castle will be busy in the great hall,” he added. 

And in the dark, their eyes briefly met, and her skin prickled, and she realized with a burst of exhilaration what he was telling her, and she looked ahead at the looming, dark silhouette of Dragonstone. 

“Thank you,” she said simply.

Prince Jon said nothing, and when they reached the castle once more and parted, he did not look at her when he instructed that she should be at the gate, ready to leave, within the hour. 

**_Jon_ **

It was time to leave, and Jon was unsurprised that Sansa Stark had gone missing. 

Torches flickered; the wheelhouse, full of trunks of fine clothes, awaited the northern girl, and all were poised in the craggy, unfriendly nighttime. Damp, chilly winds slipped through Jon’s clothes like fingertips, but he would not move. Viserys was drunk at the feast; Jon had thought this the perfect time to leave for many reasons, not least of which this one. 

“Found her rummaging through her room for a book. A _book._ Are you blind, or are you just stupid?” Daario appeared through the archway into the courtyard with the northern girl in his grip. She was flushed, hair in unusual disarray, and wearing a much heavier, more somber dress and cloak. The handmaid who had been sent to find her and had failed began to cry, and when Daario slapped her, it echoed through the courtyard like clapping. No one made a move, and the handmaid, clutching her raw face, fled the courtyard with a sob. 

“Did you find your book?” Jon asked her. In the torchlight, the northern girl’s sea-blue eyes were turned gold, and for a moment she looked like a goddess of fire, like one of the red women they had encountered in Essos, and this time Jon did shiver. He saw her throat flex as she swallowed. 

“Yes.” She produced it from her cloak. It was well-worn, well-loved. A book of songs. “It is my only remaining possession, and it is very important to me.” 

Daario scoffed, and shoved Sansa Stark forward, toward the wheelhouse. 

“What a marriage you two will have. All that snow and nothing but a book of songs between you,” he mused. Without Daenerys he was harsher, crueler—as was Jorah. Jon would be relieved to see the last of them, for he bore no illusion that he would ever see Dragonstone again. “All this for her cunt. I hope it was worth it.” 

Jon said nothing as Sansa Stark brushed past him and climbed into the dark mouth of the wheelhouse. Now it was just he and Daario left together in the courtyard. Daario was appraising him carefully. 

“You’re missing the feast,” Jon remarked. Daario tilted his head to study Jon. 

“You never did explain why you wanted to leave at night. It is unlike you to do something so obviously foolish.” 

“You’re the fool, Naharis.” Jon clapped Daario on the shoulder. “We have so many enemies in this country, and now I am giving them a large, obvious, slow-moving target for their swords and arrows. Best not do it in daylight.” 

He turned away from the swordsman and heard him scoff. 

“You really think they’d attack y _ou_? You really think they’d attack Prince Jon Targaryen, the man who made the Red Keep fall?” 

Jon glanced once more back at Daario. 

“Aye. I think they’d attack me first. I would attack me first, if I were them.” 

And then he stepped into the wheelhouse and slapped on the door to signal the crack of the whip on the glossy black horses. 

Inside the wheelhouse, his wife was in the corner, nestled among a pile of furs between two oiled oak trunks of gowns. Jon was forced to sit across from her as the wheelhouse lurched into motion. He would have preferred to be astride his horse and out in the open air—the better to see any enemies—but now he was a lord and served a different purpose, and therefore would travel like a lord. 

They jolted and lurched along with the wheelhouse, and they did not speak. He wondered where the Red Viper was now, and he wondered if he had made the right choice. It was too dark in the wheelhouse—no moon tonight—to do anything but sit there with his thoughts. Before midnight they would be on a ship that would take them to Crackclaw Point, and after that it would be weeks together in the wheelhouse until they reached Winterfell. 

They would have plenty of time for talking, but Jon was not sure that either of them would ever have much to say to the other. 

An hour before they reached the ship, he finally mastered himself to ask the question: 

“It’s done?” 

A sliver of moonlight through mist briefly paneled his wife in ghostly silver and then it was so dark he could no longer see her. 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

Jon settled back into the furs. “Thank you,” she added. 

Any number of things to say in reply were cluttered in his mouth. In the end he merely shrugged, then realized she could not see him, and said nothing further. 

**_Sansa_ **

It was another week before they spoke again, beyond the vague courtesies and necessities: excusing themselves past each other on the ship; offering food and water to each other out of politeness. They rode at night, and during the day found sheltered places to rest. Sansa drifted in and out of sleep and rarely saw Jon. At night, he often rode outside of the wheelhouse in spite of the advice against such behavior, and she thought it likely that it was just to get away from her. Part of her was stung, rejected. But mostly she was relieved, because she wanted to be alone with her thoughts of Oberyn, and of how it had felt to be kissed by a good man. 

Her lips still tingled from that breathless kiss. They had only had seconds; she had found a set of keys hidden by rushes on the stone and had not, in the moment, bothered to ponder how they had gotten there, though now she could wonder about little else. She might have asked her husband but something always stilled her, always sealed her lips shut. It was absurd but some part of her felt that to speak of it would be to give it away: this memory, this cherished, brief, flickering happiness in an otherwise darkened tunnel of a life. 

The clang of the key in the lock; her breathlessness and Oberyn’s haste to thank her, to promise her. He’d offered to run with her, taking her chin in his hands, and she had told him to be free, had told him she was going home and that was enough for her, and then he had kissed her and murmured promises against her lips. 

It was the only brave thing she’d ever done, she thought. But instead of feeling invigorated, or feeling exonerated of her guilt in surviving, she felt curiously sapped of life. The journey had mostly passed in a fog of misery and hopelessness, and even as she watched the lands around her become more tangled and wild—more northern, more like home—she could not recall to her the desperation to go home that had kept her alive for so many years. 

But after a week, Prince Jon forced her to speak again. He was riding in the wheelhouse with her again, silent and brooding, and as the dawn turned the world flushed and rosy around them, signaling it was time for them to stop, he met her eyes. 

“Come with me.”  She’d heard him speaking to the men they traveled with but it had been like hearing a voice while submerged in water; his voice was unexpectedly soft and she had almost forgotten it. The wheelhouse was all lavender in the dawn, and her husband's eyes looked silver. She was abruptly all too aware that she had not combed her hair in days. 

“Where?” She watched him rise up and shrug on a heavy cloak. There was snow dusting the ground here, barely more than frost. She could hear the men and the horses outside. She had only stepped outside to make water; she had barely walked in a week. He looked back over his shoulder at her briefly, then stepped out of the wheelhouse, and she had no choice but to pull one of the sleeping furs over her dress and follow him. 

She heard him utter something to one of the men. Her slippers were ill-suited for the north and the hard ground crackled beneath her feet as she walked, and the light snow seeped into her slippers and tickled her toes. She had stepped out into a sparkling grove, and for a moment she could not help but admire the beauty around her, and it was like waking up—just for a moment. 

Her husband had disappeared beyond the trees, and she gathered her skirts and followed him. Here the wood was dark, almost black, and jagged against the pale snow. Tangled branches and unfriendly ground. Old magic lingered in the roots here. The sounds of their servants and the wheelhouse and horses faded, and as though stepping into the world of the faeries, Sansa followed her husband between two trees and into a silent circle of ancient, brutal trees. 

"I'd rather speak here, with no prying ears to listen in," he began, turning from her. She watched him study the trees around them. In the cold, his lips looked redder, and to look at them made her mouth inexplicably water so she looked away from them hastily. Her heart, she reminded herself, was all a mess. Best not tangle the yarn any further with such strange wants. 

“In the north we believe the trees are listening,“ she replied. She didn't hear Prince Jon laugh, but she saw the puff of warmth to know it.

"Aye, if they want to listen, then let them."

At last he turned to face her. "Viserys has given us a year to give heirs," he said plainly. She noticed he wore no Targaryen symbols; he could have masqueraded as a northern man. 

Something quivered in Sansa. She had known this was coming, had been waiting for the prince to extract his payment, and she felt her heart breaking all over again with disappointment—she had known there were no true heroes—as he took a step closer to her. She reflexively stepped back, and the prince froze. He held out a hand, as though to settle a started animal, and some darkness passed through his gaze. "You need not fear me. You will have the Lord's chambers, and you'll sleep alone. I'll never come to your bed. I swear it."

She did not know what to think now. 

"What of Viserys' threat?"

This time she saw him laugh. It was a scoff, barely more than a breath, but it was more emotion than she'd seen him show since they'd left Dragonstone. 

"A year is enough time to come up with a plan."

"What if you do not come up with other plans?" she asked tightly. 

"I'll never come to your bed," Jon repeated.

She did not know what to say. She looked down at her flimsy slippers, and pulled the furs tighter around her. She was beginning to shiver, but the cold was bracing, and she found the strength to meet Jon’s eyes again. If he did not want heirs, if he did not mean to use her as a pawn in some political game, if he did not wish to share her bed... 

She did not know what to think at all. 

“Why did you marry me?” 

Now it was Prince Jon’s turn to look away. He said nothing. “Why did you want me to free Oberyn?” She knew she was pushing against some delicate balance, but she could not resist. 

“Why did you run?” he asked suddenly instead, looking at her once more. She watched him work his jaw. “You had no chance of surviving; you know this. So why did you run?”

It had been a deathwish to run and he had uncovered some secret within herself that she had been hiding from. 

“I couldn’t bear it,” she admitted. “I could not face a life of captivity.”

Jon nodded, as though this settled something, and then made to leave the circle of trees. 

“We’ll be at Winterfell in a week. I give you leave to run it as you see fit, to fill your days as you see fit. If you choose to have heirs, I give you leave to gain those heirs as you see fit.” 

He had his back to her. Sansa reached to stop him, and her fingertips brushed the fur of his cloak. She did not catch him but he paused all the same. 

“They’ll talk,” she warned him. “Everyone will know. I know how households work, how servants gossip. Every disagreement we have, every tense moment, it will be spoken of—and then reported to your uncle.” She bit her lip. “We—we’ll have to share a chamber.” 

She did not know why, but she added: “I am sorry.” 

And then he looked back at her, and for the briefest moment she was too warm. She felt as though when he looked at her, that dispassionate gaze flicking over her, he could see Oberyn’s kiss on her lips, his fingerprints on her cheeks and jaw and neck. She felt her skin grow warm with something like defiant shame. 

He turned away. 

“Then we will share a chamber,” he said shortly, "so be it. But you need not fear my touch; I swear I'll never reach for you." And he left her there in the circle of trees, her lips burning with Oberyn’s kiss and her skin burning with Jon’s gaze. 

 


	4. this love that thou hast shown doth add more grief to too much of mine own

**_Sansa_ **

Ever since her conversation with Prince Jon in the grove, Sansa's drowsiness had receded, and the light snow that fell more thickly the further north they traveled seemed gentle and soft rather than desolate. The north seemed to unfold before her, full of possibility. She could not say what had changed but she suddenly felt as she had as a child: bursting full of hope, and guided by a sure hand that was alive with the blood of the gods, arranging and rearranging her life as she moved inexorably toward a destiny that was filled with song and beauty.

Ever since King's Landing, she had been floundering, barely clutching the remains of her hope to her like the only possession she had been able to save from a raging house fire. She had barely recognized herself, and had observed her life like a passenger in a creaking wheelhouse, taking her opportunities and chances as they arose without being certain—or even hopeful—of anything good awaiting her on the other side. But now she looked out the window of the wheelhouse, saw the snow falling silently, saw the silhouette of Winterfell before her, and like trees coming slowly into bloom she sensed, for the first time in so many years, that she still had some mastery over her own fate—and Prince Jon had given it to her. 

As they neared Winterfell, the road was dotted with the people who had once been her father's people, bundled in brown and grey furs, their faces wan and weary, come to observe the arrival of the Targaryen Prince and his bride.

Prince Jon was riding outside of the wheelhouse now, and he might as well have been a northman: with his dark hair and cool gaze, and his muddled furs, he looked no more princely than her father or brothers might have. And yet—

What was it, she wondered, as she had so many times before, that made him so very remarkable a man to look upon? All eyes followed him on his black horse, the world holding its breath as the Targaryen prince, the prodigal conqueror, passed them by. He barely acknowledged the watchful gazes; if he did, it was merely a businesslike nod. And then Sansa would feel their gazes graze the wheelhouse, and spot her own pale face like a little ghost within the wheelhouse. She could read their lips: _Lady Lannister. The Targaryen Bride._

That sense of mastery was abruptly cut; the rope snapped. Sansa settled back into the furs, eyes stinging with tears. She was coming back to Winterfell, perhaps—but how would she ever come _home_?

But the more she watched, the more she understood it, and when they were close to Winterfell, Sansa found herself thinking of the moment she had watched the Lannisters take the heads of her family. Fear was a strange beast: it transformed you, it made friends seem foe and foes seem friend. The northerners were afraid, and now she realized fear stifled hope like a flame and what Prince Jon had done, by taking away her fear, was to give her hope. And as they passed the people who had once sworn fealty to her father, Sansa's heart swelled, and she wondered if she could give that gift to them. She had so little power, and yet—the Targaryen conqueror, the man who had ended the evil Lannister regime and put another in its place, had granted her more power than she'd ever had before. 

Perhaps he could grant her a little more. 

**_Jon_ **

Winterfell loomed before him. The cold was everywhere: curling under his gorget, slipping down his boots. He welcomed it after the damp chill of Dragonstone and the baking heat of King's Landing. He shrugged off the memory of walking into the Red Keep, his armor clanging and his skin slick with sweat, and instead chose to focus on this moment: here, with the eyes of the northerners lingering on him in dislike. Even this moment of watchful discomfort was preferable to  _that_ memory. He could not blame them. He would not have looked upon him with welcoming eyes either.

"Stark's bannermen await an audience with you tomorrow," one of his soldiers told him. He had ridden ahead and had come back, cheeks flushed, piled with furs; a dramatic reaction of a southerner in the harsh climate of the north. Jon wondered if the northern girl was relieved to be in this snow. He wondered what she thought of his words. He wondered how they could possibly share a bed every night for the rest of their lives. He wondered if it would be her or another northerner who would kill him in his sleep, and he wondered if he even deserved such a kind death anymore. "Will you speak with them?"

"Aye, there's no choice." Jon heard the soldier laugh. "Yes?" he asked coolly, and heard the man choke on his saliva and halt his laughter abruptly.

"I meant no offense, my lord," he said hastily, "only that you are the only one of them with any choice at all. It's your choice. If you don't wish to meet with them—"

"—And insult them? I think not," Jon replied shortly. "Send word ahead to prepare the Great Keep for a private meal with my lady and her bannermen tomorrow."

"They're _your_ bannermen now, Prince."

"You're a fool if you think that, and you don't understand these northerners."

"Your mother was a northerner—and a Stark. They owe you loyalty for that alone, not to mention they belong to you now." The soldier was pensive for a moment. "I'd rather belong to you than to a Lannister." He paused once more. "Or another Targaryen."

"I thank you for your loyalty," Jon said, his tone final, as he glanced around for watchful eyes and open ears. He would not have these words overheard by another solider—for he was certain that both Viserys and Daenerys had planted their own loyalists within the company they had sent Jon, and any man desperate to make a few dragons would happily turn in this innocent man. "Send word," he repeated. The soldier nodded curtly, and with a swift, Dothraki-sounding command, began galloping ahead.

**_Sansa_ **

"We've arrived, my Lady," one of the Targaryen men called through the door of the wheelhouse. Sansa had not needed to be told; she had felt it in her very soul as soon as they had pulled through Winterfell's gate. The wheelhouse lurched to a stop and then the door was being opened, and it was time for Sansa to come home.

_But where is home, Lady Lannister? A Targaryen bride isn’t welcome here among wolves._

It was Prince Jon who had opened the door. He had cast off some of his furs, which had been used solely for riding, and looked even more like a northerner now.As the door of the wheelhouse swung open, their eyes briefly met, and she looked past her husband to the courtyard. The household that Viserys had assembled for them was waiting in a grim line there in the courtyard, each man and woman garbed in Targaryen black and red, waiting almost shamefacedly, averting their eyes from her and trembling in the harsh winds.

Winterfell was ghostly. Still enduring, but it was all too evident that it had been in disrepair and abandonment for too many years. Sansa took Prince Jon's proffered hand and felt the snow and gravel crunch beneath her southron slippers. Jon's gloved hand was strong, holding onto hers. She was shocked to feel her own eyes burning, so she blinked and looked to Prince Jon.

"I-it looks so different. Yet so the same," she confessed quietly. Targaryen banners hung where the Stark banner should have been flapping in the breeze, and her eyes lingered on them as a lump formed in her throat.

"There are too many watching; otherwise I'd have them taken down," the conquering prince said under his breath. Sansa swallowed. Again she wondered why he would be so kind to her, yet apparently expect nothing in return from her. 

And did she have the strength, the courage, to ask him to give her even more kindness, even more power? Why had he given any to her in the first place? 

Sometimes it almost seemed he feared his aunt and uncle. But how could this man—this already-legendary conqueror—be afraid of a fool like Viserys? She looked at Prince Jon. His eyes were unreadable to her, as unknowable and impenetrable as a frozen lake, showing her little more than her own silvered reflection. He nodded subtly to the servants shivering before them. "They are yours, but take care, my lady. They are hungry for coin and Viserys can offer more than you can."

"I think they are hungry for love," she countered. When she looked upon them she could almost see Viserys' cruelty upon them like fingerprints.

"Aye, perhaps that more than coin, but love does not buy food or safety." Prince Jon dropped her hand and stepped forward to the line of servants. The crows quorked over the broken tower, and the wind howled. The Targaryen sigil flapped and snapped in the wind like dragon's jaws. "My lady wife Sansa is your mistress and you will obey her every command. You will not question her. If my own commands contradict hers, you will follow hers," Jon informed them, his voice carrying harshly through the courtyard. The way he addressed them, pacing briskly before them, she could see the military man coming out. He was taking off his gloves with sharp, swift movements. "I will be in the stables. You will see that her belongings are brought to the Lord's Chambers and that she has every comfort. Our journey has been long." He paused, gaze averted. "Thank you," he added, almost awkwardly, and then stalked off, his boots crunching in the snow, leaving Sansa alone with her new household.

**_Jon_ **

He had been avoiding it all evening.

He'd had plenty of good reasons to avoid the bedchamber, to be completely fair to himself. He'd helped his men—Viserys' men, really—with their many horses in the stables, which were now overflowing. He had been led on a tour of Winterfell by the new castellan, including the crypts, where an empty space had been left for his mother's bones, and which would now lay in wait to be filled by his and Sansa Stark's bones one day. After all, this was his home now, and supposedly he ought to know every inch of it. He had always been aware—perhaps more aware than Viserys or Daenerys—that there was quite a bit of dull work involved in ruling, and this was it: where were the grain stores, and how prepared were they? How well-tended were the vegetable gardens? Which parts of the castle were falling into disrepair, and which were most important to restore first? Where were the records of the taxes collected in the last year, and how accurate were they? Which bannermen had paid in grain, and which in coin?

Much of this would be his wife's business, but as Jon walked through the castle following the castellan, he was beginning to realize that he would be for the first time in his life entirely useless. There were no soldiers to train, no battles to strategize for. This was his epilogue and he had little to do in it, save for while away his remaining days in this harsh land and contemplate his guilt, ruminate on how he had been instrumental in bringing the dragons back to Westeros, and wonder if that had been the right thing to do after all. Perhaps he and his aunt and uncle had not been the ones to destroy Westeros—it had been in ruins when they had landed on its shores, and the mark they had made had been primarily upon the Red Keep and Baelor’s Sept—but... The Lannisters had been the ones to ruin Westeros but Jon would forever take the credit for it, and he did not know—he did not think he’d ever know—if this was right or not.

He had always been a man of action but there were no actions left. He had given over all power to Sansa Stark, and though he knew at the very least that this was the right thing to do, he could not help but note, every time he told the servants, 'that's my wife's purview,' just how useless he really was now.

But nevertheless he busied himself. He looked seriously at their weapons stores, at their grain, at their horses. He nodded and examined the broken tower with the castellan, and agreed with the man that the gouges in the walls of the Great Keep, currently patched with wattle-and-daub, would be the most important to repair first. The sky darkened, and he was asked if he was hungry, and though his stomach was knotted in hunger he said he was not, and he continued to busy himself with things that had nothing to do with him. He saw flashes of his wife's hair throughout the day: she too was being led about Winterfell, being shown what its needs were. Every time he saw that red hair he turned away from it.

She was right after all. There would be gossip: there already was. He had been walking to the kitchens and he'd heard it first, hushed voices of maids bringing water back from the well, their breaths clouding in the air.

_'They haven't even lay together yet.'_

_'No! But he married her in such a hurry. Heard he raped her.'_

_'Doesn't look like a man to rape, though, does he? He’s as frosty as ice, that one. Can’t see him driven to rape.’_

_'They all are, Wylla. He stole her from his uncle the King. Mark my words, he'll have her tonight.'_

_'I think he won't. I think they hate each other. They don’t even look at each other.’_

The girls hushed at once when he entered the kitchen, their faces flushed as they scrambled to curtsey before him, though he waved away their curtseys. He was no king. He could hardly believe they would curtsey for a man they thought would rape, but then, he knew what fear did to people.

He knew what it had done to him, anyway.

And as Winterfell began to quiet and the thickness of night fell over it, he could avoid it no longer. A bath had been drawn for him, he was told, and his wife was waiting for him in the Lord's chambers with a light supper.

Jon wished he could have had a quiet moment alone before he entered their rooms. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he lingered outside of the door. There was a light floral scent in the air; Sansa Stark had been bathed and perfumed for him. He tried not to think of that: water sluiced off her pale skin, auburn hair curling wetly at the nape of her neck. Oh, she was lovely, but Targaryens took what they wanted and he no longer wanted to be a Targaryen—he never had wanted to be. Once upon a time he had been loved by his mother, sunlight turning dark curls golden; she had laughingly held him up and taught him how to sing songs and how to peel an apple and how to love, and then she’d died, and Jon had wandered the halls in Essos alone, distant, watching his aunt and uncle grow into rulers, and something in him had indeed frozen; the serving girl was right about that. But every so often something made the ice crack and the thought of Sansa Stark’s warm, wet lips against his—

He swallowed and put the thought out of his mind and pushed open the door.

**_Sansa_ **

The new handmaids had bathed her, washing the grime and filth of days of being on the road from her, and dressed her in silks, and perfumed her; they brushed her hair until it shone in gleaming waves. A table had been laid before the hearth, with candles and mugs of ale and fresh bread. A scene meant to tempt the conqueror to bed his new wife.

Sansa had had some time alone to search the chambers, but nothing of her parents' remained. Winterfell had been looted so many times: its walls were familiar to her but everything within it was newly built, the corners drafty with what had been taken from them. The enormous bed that had been in her family for so many generations was gone, and in its place was an unfamiliar bed piled with red and black silks, looking absurdly out of place against the rough stone walls and flickering torches. She had done her best to hide the silks with the heavy sleeping furs so that it looked more like home, but the red seeped out like blood every time she thought she'd tucked it away.

Perhaps she was nervous.

He made her quake.

She’d overheard the soldiers talking, jeering with one another.

_‘Think he’s had her yet?’_

_‘I’ll bet you a dragon he hasn’t. I heard that he lied to the king; he never raped her.’_

She had held her breath, had hidden behind the stone wall. She heard one of them spit, heard it hit the gravel wetly, and her stomach had turned.

_‘It’s the Martell girl he wanted.’_

Jeers, laughter. Comments that made her skin burn. She had heard Arianne Martell was quite beautiful; she had not realized that Prince Jon had met Princess Arianne, but from what she had gathered, the Martells had offered Viserys a marriage to Arianne in exchange for Dorne’s protection before the Lannisters had rained hell upon Sunspear—though Sansa knew Arianne had slipped away at the last moment, ruining the betrothal and saving herself from both the Targaryens and the Lannisters. Sansa wondered if Prince Jon had looked upon Arianne Martell with longing; for he certainly had not looked at Sansa with any notion of desire or want in his eyes. It was almost impossible to imagine what it might look like for that remarkable man to want a woman, and now as she stood in the Lord’s chamber, awaiting Prince Jon, her skin burned once again as she wondered if what the soldiers said was true. She wondered if Prince Jon still burned for Arianne Martell: a beautiful warrior queen, strong and powerful and courageous in all of the ways Sansa was not.

There was no need to wonder about how Prince Jon had felt about Arianne Martell at all. There was no need to picture his grey eyes, so chilly toward her, turning warm in the sunlight of Sunspear as he gazed upon thick raven hair and scented skin fragrant with orange blossom, as he verbally sparred with a quick-witted dangerous beauty, his almost-pretty mouth curving slightly as he tried not to laugh at an almost-dirty joke that the warrior princess made, as he looked away, covering his pretty mouth with a strong hand and biting his lip… There was no need to think of either of them at all.

She paced the room. She had been thinking, all day, as she had been led around Winterfell to examine its ruination and plan for its rebirth. Many of the household staff were from the Targaryens, but many had been hired, and she saw the northernness in the lines of their faces as they regarded her. Whatever hope she had had for a triumphant welcome had been quashed: after all, to the northerners, she had been Lady Lannister, and now Lady Targaryen. She had twice married conquerors, destroyers. The Lannisters had destroyed Westeros and then the Targaryens had scraped up its remains and taken it for themselves and burned the last of it, and she alone of her family had survived the Lannisters, and she knew the northerners did not love her for it.

So she had been thinking of their fear, and thinking of the hope Prince Jon had given her, and it had come to her when she had been standing on the parapets and had looked down to see her husband with his soldiers, discussing something.

Yes, she had married a conqueror.

But she was already certain that by this marriage she was not the only one who had escaped the Targaryens, and she was not the only one who was desperate to make this place her home, to find safety at last.

So she had come up with her plan, and now she paced, for though she was certain of the insight she'd had, it was still a gamble, and it was foolish to suddenly no longer think Prince Jon her enemy, just because he had been kind. This was dangerous, this was foolish, and she would have to tread so carefully around this conquering prince—

The door creaked open and Sansa startled at the sound and turned from the fire. Prince Jon was there, dressed simply, hair pulled back from his face and a weary look in his eyes. She noted that he bore no dragons on his gorget or belt; he was dressed as anonymously as a northern soldier. She could not help but think again that she was not the only one who had escaped Viserys.

"May I come in?" He paused in the doorway, his strong, scarred hand resting on the handle, as she met his grey eyes and tried not to imagine them warming toward Arianne Martell. There was no need to think of any of that; this was not a love match. When he shut the door behind him, and they were at last in the safety of the thick walls of the Lord's chamber, she let out a sigh.

"You needn't ask. They'll gossip," she warned him. She watched Jon shed his sword belt and leave it on a low table with a heavy, ominous _clank._  The movements, rough and practiced, made her quake...but in a good way, and she hated herself for allowing her mind to go to such a foolish place. He glanced at her dispassionately over a svelte shoulder.

"They already are," he said curtly. His grey eyes flicked to the meal laid out on the table. "You needn't have waited for me. You should have eaten. You must be hungry.“

The air was hummingwith the tension. They could not quite meet the other's eyes; Jon went to the table with brisk movements and pulled out the wooden chair with a businesslike _scrape_.

"I suppose I am still unsettled," she confessed, standing by the table and watching him tear up the heel of bread. She toyed with the end of a lock of auburn hair, perfumed with roses just to entice Jon. A useless endeavor, apparently, and she would not allow herself to wonder what _would_ entice him. She told herself that she was pathetically latching onto him for his kindness, but she could not think like a foolish maiden. She had to think strategically, she had to think politically. She owed it to the ghosts of her family; she owed it to the northerners who were still alive and still filled with fear. "It is strange to come home and find nothing as it was."

Jon still did not look at her properly; he took a long swig of ale and over the rim of the silver cup his dark eyes so briefly met hers and a shiver rent her spine until he looked away hastily as though shamed. "You still have not told me—"

"—Your bannermen wish to meet with us tomorrow," Jon interrupted, staring into the fire. “I have arranged for a meal in the Great Keep with them. If you wish, you may lead the discussion. I will say nothing unless you would wish it.”

He ate without looking at her, and Sansa wished she were as quick-witted and as lovely as Arianne Martell. She studied this man as he avoided her eyes and ate quickly and efficiently. How many women had he had, she wondered? He must have had many, enough that he could not be tempted with the constancy of a wife’s warm body in his bed. Any number of women must have availed themselves to him during his travels from Essos to Westeros.

 _There’s summat about him that makes me quake,_ the handmaid had said.

Sansa’s skin prickled. The handmaid hadn’t been alone in that.

She did not fear him, here in their new chambers, and yet her heart was hammering against her breastbone and her legs were weak. With awkward movements, she took a seat across from him, watched his gaze flick to her again at the sound of the wooden chair against the rough stone.

“I—” she began, but her voice was too high, too weak. She had to tread carefully—was this truly the best way to approach this? “You have not told me why you are treating me with such kindness.”

“I wouldn’t call it kindness,” Jon said without looking at her. He tore off another hunk of bread. “I have little interest in taxes and matters of governing, my lady. It is out of selfishness that I leave such matters to you.”

“You have more talent for it than your aunt or uncle,” Sansa said cautiously, watching his face. For a moment once more his dark eyes met hers, and in the firelight those chilling grey eyes almost looked golden. He held her gaze; he was studying her as though she were a book in a language he had only partly learned. His eyes narrowed.

“You go too far,” he warned at last, and looked away. He finished the last of his ale. “You may take the bed first.”

He rose abruptly from the table and Sansa did too. Over the table they stared at each other, but Sansa lost her courage and turned from him. As Jon blew out the candles, she clambered into the bed, beneath the furs and silks, her heart fluttering and useless as a bird trapped in a cage. In the dark, silhouetted by the dying fire, she saw Jon’s slim form slip out of his armor and leathers. She was all too aware of the rustle of fabric, the _zip_ of the lacing through the grommets of his boots. She lay there curled on her side, heart hammering. Had he ever undressed for Arianne Martell? Or any other woman? Why did it matter? Why could she not get the thought of it out of her mind? It was clouding her judgment. 

She felt, at last, the bed dip behind her. Heard the conqueror climb into bed with her. A rush of the warm scent of his skin, a scent she had tasted briefly a few times during their journey north, a scent that gave her the inexplicable urge to bury her face in the crook of his neck. There was warmth behind her in this cold, cold room, and she could hardly breathe. In spite of being married twice, she’d never shared a bed with a man before.

The moonlight turned the room silver as midnight drew near. She knew from his breathing that the Targaryen Prince was not yet asleep. And in the darkness, against the howl of the wind and the cry of wild wolves in the distance, Sansa found her courage once more. She turned to lay on her back and stare at the tapestry of the canopy over them.

“How did you feel when you took the Red Keep from the Lannisters?” she breathed in the darkness.

She knew he was laying on his back too, staring at the canopy too, but she was not so courageous that she could look at him so freely just yet.

“I don’t know,” he breathed back. It was a confession, and in some ways it was a wedding gift.

She heard him turn on his side. When she found the courage to look at him, she saw his bare skin; he had his back to her. 

"I am so ashamed for having lived this long, when my family has suffered and died," she confessed, gazing at his strong back. She watched it tense at her words. "I am filled with guilt, and until you saved me from Viserys I thought I deserved to die." She licked her lips. "I know what guilt looks like, my lord." 

"Guilt? I saved a continent from the Lannisters, as was my duty." Jon's voice was frost creeping along her skin, and she shivered. "We will not speak of it further." 

She rolled away from him and pulled the furs over her body. 

"We could save the north from your uncle," she whispered, voice shaking. "I know we could. We owe it to the world." 

She expected him to contradict her, to speak at all, but her conqueror said nothing more at all, and they lay there, side-by-side, until dawn, neither daring to sleep, to dream, to rest easily when they were so close, when the air was filled with the scent of each other's skin. 

_**Jon** _

At dawn he rose, and dressed in training leathers, and in the rosy, lavender mist of dawn he fought his demons alone.

 _We owe it to the world,_ his wife had said. 

He hacked and slashed until he could no longer move. Gasping, he dropped his sword in the snow and looked up, feeling eyes upon him. His lady wife was watching him from the window of their bedroom. He could still taste the scent of her skin. She was dressed to meet the bannermen; he turned from her silvery gown and ocean-blue eyes. 

_I know what guilt looks like, my lord._


	5. a choking gall; and a preserving sweet

> _The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”_   
>    
> 

_**Sansa** _

She had dressed in the Stark colors to prepare for this meeting. Sansa had not seen her husband since the dawn, when she had watched him training alone in the courtyard where she had once watched Robb and Theon train under Rodrik Cassel. From the Lord's chambers she had watched the Stark bannermen file into Winterfell in the light snow, and her stomach had tightened with something like fear. She did not like to meet her father's bannermen without some sort of plan in place—Prince Jon had neither given her hope that he would agree to her plan, nor denied it—because she wanted something to counteract the accusations that would undoubtedly ghost their lips whether they said the words or not.

_Lady Lannister. The Targaryen Bride._

On her way to the Great Hall, she met Prince Jon at last. He was dressed so simply that he could have been of the household staff, and his dark, cool gaze grazed her. Outside of the door, alone for the moment, he barred her from entering, forcing her to turn to him.

"Sansa," he began in a low voice, "what I said last night was true. You will lead this discussion; I leave everything to you."

She quivered before him. Somehow, dressed more simply he was more intimidating to her. Perhaps it was because, stripped down and without decoration, it was all the more apparent to her that gold and titles had not made Prince Jon who he was. This was no false prince crowned in gold, reclining while starving soldiers won kingdoms for him. He did not need ornate armor or titles to make people listen; it was evident who and what he was just by the way he walked. It was a paradox: he was entirely inaccessible to her and yet entirely without illusion. 

Still, despite her fear, she said the foolish thing anyway.

"And what I said last night was true, too." She watched his eyes widen almost imperceptibly, then narrow briefly. He looked about to speak, but he held his tongue and took the door by the handle.

"After you, my lady," he said coldly.

Sansa entered the Great Hall with her chin held high, and heard Prince Jon's boots on the flagstone. The torches flickered and the apathetic, unreachable gazes of her father's bannermen were on her. She took her place at the high table, and Jon followed. When a servant pulled out her chair, the bannermen watched her sit, and then at last sat down themselves.

The room was ringing with the silence. Sansa watched their gazes shift from her to Prince Jon beside her, and she risked a glance at him. His face was impassive; it was only when she looked around the room that she realized the three-headed dragon was nowhere to be found. No sigils graced the walls, and Jon wore no Targaryen colors.

"Thank you for coming to Winterfell, my lords," she began, but they still were not looking at her; they were only staring at Jon. He stared back defiantly as the silence stretched between them.

"My lady addressed you," he said to the room. Abruptly, he got to his feet, and braced his palms on the table. "If it is me you fear, you need not fear me. I wish you no harm."

"We do not fear you, prince," said Lord Royce, getting to his feet as well. "You may have conquered the Lannisters, but you're in the north now. We're not so soft."

Sansa sensed how this situation was slipping away from her, slipping through her fingers, and she began to panic. She got to her feet as well.

"My lords, Prince Jon married me to save me from Viserys Targaryen," she blurted out, and they looked at her at last. "He is on our side."

" _Our_ side, my lady _Lannister_?" Lord Royce asked hotly. "That's twice now you've married an enemy—"

"—And twice now you failed to save the daughter of your sworn lord," Prince Jon interrupted, louder than she'd ever heard him speak. Lord Royce fell silent at once as the room seemed to hold its breath.

The conqueror moved from behind the table to the center of the room and turned to meet each northman's gaze. "Twice now you failed to uphold your vows. Twice now your cowardice overcame you. My lady wife has married to survive—and has courageously attempted escape. My lady wife twice now survived the Lannisters and mine own blood. That is more than I can say for any of you. When they took your northern lord's head—and the heads of his sons, his wife, his daughter—where were you?"

He paused, looking around at each and every one of them. "You were safe in the north," he finished acidly. "You abandoned Lord Stark's only blood left, out of your own cowardice, and she survived. Now she wishes to make peace with you. I would not be so kind. If I were her, I'd have all your heads, and I'd do it myself. You must realize your luck. I've brought an army here, the most effectively trained army that Westeros has ever seen, and it is by your lady _Lannister's_ word that their swords remain sheathed even now. Aye, I did conquer the Red Keep—as did the men I've brought with me. Do not forget it."

Jon turned from them, and walked to the door, pausing before leaving. "I leave all matters of governing the north to my lady wife—this is her home, and her birthright. But do not think I am as craven as you northmen. I am a dragon. Remember that, Lord Royce, before you dare to call my wife 'Lannister' again."

And with that, he left. The door slammed shut, leaving Sansa shivering there with the shocked silence of her father's bannermen. She did not wish to appear weepy or weak but his words had done something to her. She had never felt so seen, so understood, in her life. And she could not remember the last time she had been upheld by someone, honored by someone. Secretly at night for so many years she had burned with grief for how her father's men had never come for her or her family; no one had helped them, after the years—generations, really—of Starks who had given and given and  _given_ to their bannermen, who had relented on taxes when harvests were thin or who had sacrificed grain on long winters to feed them. And after all of the meat and mead that had been shared—what had it all been for? When the Starks had needed their lords, these northmen who had been so proud and puffed up had been absent. They had let her family die.

None of them would look at her now. Sansa swallowed. Jon had done her a great service in defending her so vocally, but there was still work to do.

"My lords," she began, "I am saddened by how you failed my father, just as I am saddened by my Lannister marriage—but I believe in forgiveness. And Prince Jon is a good man. I believe we can move past this and protect the north."

"He's a dragon," said one of the lords. "He said so himself. And he's brought his great, conquering army here—he said so himself. How can we protect the north with a dragon in our midst?"

"Because he brought his great, conquering army here," Sansa said with a slight, tremulous smile.

_**Jon** _

He rarely allowed his temper to get the best of him. After years in the presence of Viserys and Daenerys, he had learned to swallow his emotions, to hide his feelings, to stifle his words. Words could not be unsaid, and they took away your control of a situation. He had learned to be more cautious than this, but something about that moment—the looks of those bloody _cowards_ , the tone of that lord's voice as he'd said _Lady Lannister—_ it had incensed him. These fat lords had hidden in the north while a little girl—for until very recently, that was what Sansa had been—had suffered at the hands of the most evil family that Westeros had ever seen...and they had the nerve to scorn her for finding a way to survive. These lords who had sat in their furs and drank their ale around busy hearths, safe with their families, had the nerve to shame someone for finding a way to survive. They knew _nothing_ of fear, knew nothing of pain, and had the nerve to act like they had been the wounded party.

So he had come here, to the godswood, a place that he felt a strange affinity for. His mother had told him of the trees with faces, of the tree called the heart tree, and now he stared at its ancient, bloody face. He heard soft footsteps in the light snow, and he knew it was Sansa, but he could not bring himself to face his wife.

"Thank you," he heard her soft voice. He stared at the heart tree though he heard her shivering in the cold. He clenched his jaw. "I never thought anyone could understand how abandoned I felt." She paused, and he heard her step closer, footsteps as light and soft as a fawn. "It's made me wonder if you and your mother felt abandoned by my family."

She had hit a nerve. Jon could not speak. "Growing up, we were all told that Lyanna had run away, that she had run off to be with Rhaegar and had abandoned her family, and that no one could convince her to come back. She had been a traitor, and we were told of how beautiful and willful and foolish she had been, and how that foolishness had killed her. I hadn't thought of it in years but now I wonder if that's really the whole story."

Jon glanced back at her.

"It's not," he said, and turned away again. Talk of his mother was always a surefire way to get his blood boiling, and perhaps this was why he had grown so angry, had lost his temper, earlier. "Aye, she was beautiful and willful and foolish. She was also a child. By the time she had realized her mistake, it was too late. She was trapped among the Targaryens."

"I'm sorry my father didn't come for her."

"I think he did, before she had me," Jon admitted. He stared willfully—just as willfully as his mother—at the ancient wood. Touched its bark. Felt its soul. "But she hadn't understood yet what she was truly getting herself into. And by the time she had, he'd given up."

"I'm sorry," she merely said again. "I wonder how things would have been if he'd not given up."

"I try not to," Jon said, and flinched at the light touch on his shoulder. She held her hand there, briefly, and he felt her touch quivering slightly. She feared him, even now, and he wondered if he could possibly blame her for that. He feared her too, in some ways, ways that he could not understand. This unknowable soul; these impenetrable eyes. At last she took her hand from his shoulder. 

"Why _did_ you conquer the Lannisters?" 

"I thought it was right. I'd grown up hearing stories of their evil—not just from Viserys and Dany, but from others, too. It was all that they talked of in Braavos, in Pentos. The evil, golden lions. I thought I was saving the world."

"But now..?"

"I still think it was right—overthrowing them." He paused. "But that is all I'm certain of."

"Do you not believe in your uncle?"

She came to stand beside him, and together they stared at the heart tree. He had never been so aware of a person's hand near his own. He almost thought he could feel her skin, though there were inches between them and he wore thick leather gloves.

"...No," he finally admitted the horrible, acidic secret that he had had for so long. "No, I do not."

"What of Daenerys?"

"She is better," he said slowly. "But not right either. She's grown power-hungry. She's gone down a path that... Well, she's changed."

"Do you think the north is in danger?"

"Aye, I do."

"You _know_ we could do something—"

Jon rounded on her.

"My army is a fraction of what it was. I've got some of my best men but we lack the numbers and the artillery to stand against my uncle. We lack the geographic positioning. We lack the allies. To move against Viserys... It would take the time and resources that we do not have. We could _not._ "

"How many men would you need for an army?"

"All of the northmen. Every last one. For the next ten years." Jon shook his head. "And they'll not follow me, I can feel it."

"Not yet," Sansa insisted.

"We don't have the time. We'd need Dorne," he thought aloud, "and though the Red Viper is released, we don't know if he is alive and we don't know if Dorne has the ability to be an ally now. The Lannisters destroyed Sunspear and then we took what was left."

"You're right—we don't know," she said. Impulsively, she took his hand, then dropped it, and they stepped back from each other. Their breaths clouded in the air. "So you're saying that all we really need is time?"

"Time, and luck, for starters." He shook his head. "We'd need Viserys to not suspect a thing. Not for a long time. Not for years."

"So we'd need it to look as though we were loyal. Like we were merely ruling the north for him."

They fell silent. "We would need heirs."

Jon looked away from her. His heart was pounding.

"It's too dangerous. I don't know which of my men Viserys has bought and which men are loyal to him."

"We'd need to trick everyone, then."

"Aye, and I don't know that we can."

"I think we could. If we had heirs, if we made it look merely as though we were rebuilding Winterfell and ruling for Viserys. If we built up our loyalties one by one."

"That would take years."

"The years would pass anyway."

Jon was suddenly too warm. "I remember that Lord Royce was temperamental. I'll be able to get him first, I think," Sansa reasoned. "He's so vocal; once he's on our side, the others will follow."

"And what of the heirs?"

In the silence of the godswood, they looked at each other again. Her eyes were truly the most devastating blue, as blue as the glittering waters that lined Essos. He had not realized until now just how much he missed that deep blue-green, that made him think of endless sun and white sand and heat on the back of his neck, scorching his skin, and children's laughter and the scents and tastes of Braavos.

She looked down and a lock of auburn hair slid with the movement, and his fingers curled with the urge to push it back, to tuck it behind her ear.

"It is the right time, to start," she admitted, looking away from him. Her cheeks were flushed. "For the next week," she added after a moment, "it would be possible."

There was no way to escape the strain of this moment. Jon's breath was short; his chest had tightened. He felt that he was taking something that did not belong to him.

_**Sansa** _

Prince Jon was not looking at her. She watched, out of the corner of her eye, as he shifted a bit, raked a hand over his hair.

"Have you ever—?" he started. She could not look at him either. She shook her head mutely, her heart pounding. "Not with Tyrion Lannister?"

"—Viserys wanted a virgin," she interrupted sharply, "and he would have gotten one. I've never."

"I see. I had thought—well, it matters not," he stammered.

"You thought what?"

"Nothing. Forget it." She heard him swallow. "Would you not wish to lay with someone that—"

"—Someone _what_?"

Their eyes met. She felt like she couldn't breathe; she was dizzy, too warm, yet shivering all the same. She thought of how he had looked in the Great Keep, and now the way he was looking at her, she felt her skin prickle all over as though he'd touched her. She felt as though, strangely, he was holding her in place, though he had not touched her.

"Someone that you love," he finished quietly. "It should be with someone that you love."

"Was it with someone that you love?" she countered. Jon studied her as he thought. She could not look away though she wished she could.

"No," he said at last. "But it should have been."

"It would still be for love," she insisted, after she had regained her composure. "I love the north. And I would love our children." She turned away from him, her heart hammering against her breastbone. She clutched her cloak around herself tighter. "Come to our chambers tonight. It is the right time to try."

And she left him there in the godswood.

* * *

Her hands had been too numb with nerves so she had needed the help of her handmaids to bathe and dress for bed. She had thought perhaps she should perfume herself, as they had perfumed her for the wedding; perhaps she should make herself as enticing for him as possible, as it was clear he did not wish to lay with her. She did not know what to make of what he had said, and she combed over the words repeatedly as her handmaids combed over her hair. If he had not loved the woman he had lay with—why had he done it? She knew that men had different sorts of needs, and the thought of him having such needs made something flutter in her breast, something like fear but in a good way. She could not seem to stop picturing him in some darkened corridor with a faceless woman, some raven-haired beauty like Arianne Martell, pushing her up against the wall and kissing the flesh of her neck. Her skin was prickling at the image and it made her both foolishly angry and too warm, and she sensed that she was being ridiculous, and she longed to be able to let go of the thought but she could not.

In the end she did not douse herself in perfumes, and though her handmaids had brushed her hair so neatly, she mussed it almost defiantly as she never would have done normally, standing before her looking glass in the plainest nightclothes she could find. She hated how flushed her skin was; she hated how numb her fingers still were and how weak her legs felt at the knees.

The sun went down, and the torchlight in their chambers flickered. She had not seen Jon nor even heard him since their confrontation in the godswood and she wondered if he would even come, or if he would find some excuse to stay away for the night. This was not even about them—this was entirely about the north, and protecting her father's people—and yet she could not help but feel bothered and stung by his apparent rejection. She watched the tallow burn away as she paced.

It was midnight when she heard the lock in the door; the heavy iron-and-wooden door creaked open, and in the low, golden light, Prince Jon appeared in the doorway. He was still dressed so simply; he was missing the heavy cloak and his swordbelt, though, that he seemed to always wear. He lingered in the doorway as their eyes met across the room. In silence, he stepped into the room and shut the door behind himself, then leaned against it, regarding her almost thoughtfully.

"I would have thought you had given your virginity to the Red Viper," he admitted plainly. He did not take his eyes from her. "You seemed as though you wished to, the way your eyes looked when there was any mention of him. The way you looked at him at our wedding."

"I did not realize you had noticed how I looked at Oberyn," she said coolly, though she had never felt so warm. She held her chin up, posture erect, as she returned his gaze archly.

"Aye, I did," he said simply. The room was stiflingly warm. "Did you want to?"

"Why does it matter?"

She watched a muscle leap in his jaw.

"It doesn't," he said after a pause. "It doesn't matter at all."

He stepped away from the door and she fought the urge to stumble backward. She would not seem a fearful doe. They were doing this to protect the north; this was not about them. Her fingers, still numb and clumsy, fluttered against the fabric of her nightdress.

"Shall I take off my nightdress?"

His gaze dropped, briefly, to her hands as they moved against the fabric, then he was studying her again.

"No," he said quietly. "I will."

 


	6. thus with a kiss I die

**Sansa**

He was so close—she could see the candlelight in his grey eyes, see the way his lashes ghosted downward as he looked down at her nightdress. Prince Jon stepped closer yet again and as though it were a dance, she stepped back with a sharp breath. The bed hit the backs of her knees, and Prince Jon froze. His eyes were unreadable, impenetrable—yet they pierced her all the same. He was so armored, though he wore no mail. Would he always be so armored to her? She felt naked and helpless before him, like a shivering doe, and she despised it.

She was accustomed to being the unreachable one. She had been blank before Joffrey, remote to Tyrion, uncatchable to Viserys... but she was utterly Prince Jon's prey, and was it any wonder? He was a hunter, a conqueror, and the best of them; of course he would catch her where no man had before.

She watched as he quickly bit his lower lip; the sight of his teeth in the smooth, pink flesh was...was...was _something_ , something that made her want to bite his lip too. She hated herself for it; this was not about them, this was not about her, this was about the north—so why did she feel as wicked as if she were about to snatch a treat when no one was looking?

"You step back from me," he observed, eyes narrowing shrewdly. "I thought you were prepared for this. I thought this was part of the plan."

She bit her own lip, watched his gaze flick to the movement so quickly, so secretively, then back to her eyes. Men had needs—she knew this—and she wondered if, for Prince Jon, this would be both a way to secure safety and a way to secure his own needs. This was not about her at all. He did not want _her_ —he wanted wet warmth around him. She thought again, unbidden, of his teeth grazing the flesh of a faceless woman's neck in a dark corridor, and she wondered if this image that so haunted her was in her eyes—she wondered if he could see her thoughts as easily as if they were a play displayed before him.

"I told you I've never—" She could not say the words.

The conqueror was clenching his teeth, for she could see a muscle leap in his jaw, beneath the smooth pale skin and rough stubble of his beard. Would that roughness graze her own tender flesh soon? "It is part of the plan. I just—I just feel unprepared," she confessed.

"I cannot touch someone who would not have me touch them," Prince Jon said shortly. He stepped backward and it felt as though a canyon had split between them.

"I _would_ have you touch me. I just am nervous." She fingered the cloth of her nightdress and saw his eyes take in the movement. They looked darker for a moment and it made her skin prickle. "I am afraid of you seeing my body," she confessed. "I am afraid that—"

"—Do not fear _that_ ," her husband scoffed, looking away. Briefly his brows drew together in some dark humor, some inward joke that he would not share with her.

"Then what should I fear, if not that?"

He looked back at her. His gaze was level.

"Fear wasted time," he said evenly. "Fear wasted love. Sansa," he began, and the way he said her name, the way his voice twisted around it like vines around stone, it just— "I saw how you looked at the Red Viper—"

There was at last heat in his voice and for the briefest moment she felt powerful _at last_ , felt in control _at last_. He halted and she saw him clench his fists then release, and let out a sigh. "It is not something that can be undone. And it will change things...it will make things more difficult between us. We may be doing this for strategic reasons, but this act is personal—as personal as a thing can be—and it will complicate things."

"I didn't realize things were simple between us," she snarked. He arched his brows at her, let out a soft little laugh; he shook his head and it infuriated her. It was condescension.

"You do not know it yet," he warned her, "but things  _are_ simple between us. ...For now."

She despised his condescension, his coolness, his ability to be so reserved when she felt so wild.

"I will simply picture Oberyn, then, and it will be as though we had never lay together," she told him, tossing her hair. She wanted to feel powerful; she did not want to be his prey. Or did she? He made her quake _but in a good way_. She wanted his rough stubble rubbing her neck raw; she wanted his strong hands gripping her wrists; she wanted him to beg for her.

What did that mean? What was it that she really wanted him to do: to conquer her, or to kneel for her?

His jaw became fixed, and he stared at her. The silence was ringing.

"So be it," he said coolly.

It was still not right; she had neither conquered nor been conquered.

"He kissed me," she added, her voice as fluttering and nervous as a bird's wings. "When I went to release him, Oberyn kissed me."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" He looked bored and annoyed, and it in turn made her feel even more unreasonable and angry. She longed to open a window, longed to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. For as long as she had known him he had been so unknowable, and even when he had been so softly, so sweetly leading her around and around that courtyard, he still had been as remote as the moon.

Was this how her many betrothed had felt about her? She had often sensed, in particular, Tyrion's frustration with her distance. She did not want to play the part of Tyrion whilst Jon played the part of her. She did not want that at all.

"Yes, it should," she said archly. She wondered how she could get to him, how she could draw him closer—even if in anger—rather than push him further away. "It made me feel...warm." Her tongue was thick; her mouth felt clumsy. "Warm, and..."

Fluttering heart. A helpless bird, but she would not be his prey; she would not quake before him; she would be the one to own him... "...and damp," she added at last. He cocked his head, so slightly. Raised his brows. He looked like he was about to laugh at her.

"Damp. Did some lecherous old man tell you to say such words?" he scoffed, and the way his lips moved, teeth flashing as he smirked briefly— _why_ did he smirk at her like that, and _why_ were his lips so lovely? Why did she think, when he smirked like that, of his mouth against her warm, damp— "Was it Baelish?"

The name was like a splash of ice water: perhaps for the best but still jarring.

"No one _told_ me to say anything," she insisted. "It is merely the truth."

It was the truth—she had never felt _that_ before, not until Oberyn had kissed her. It had been a shock, at first, of heat splitting her in half—and then a dull throb that made her want to rub her thighs together, that made her feel too warm, and strangely angry—as angry as she felt now—and uncomfortable, too; unable to settle. "But Lord Baelish _did_ tell me that men like when a woman is...damp," she added, for this was also true, "...so if you want to feel any pleasure at all, then perhaps you should kiss me first."

He looked away.

"Did that foul man often tell you what men like?" he asked disgustedly. He did not seem jealous or intrigued—merely disdainful. This was not what she had wanted; she had wanted him closer, had wanted him to feel this same strange anger that made her throb with discomfort that could only be assuaged by—

"—Yes. Perhaps he was wrong," she tried. "So tell me. ... _Do_ you like it when a woman is damp?"

He surprised her by meeting her eyes.

"Aye, I do," he said at last. "It means she wants me."

She wondered how many women had been damp for him, wondered how many women had parted their legs, flesh bruised by his strong fingers. How many times had he felt a woman's damp warmth? There was a hint of something in the way he said the words, a hint of expertise, of experience. A hint of so many women spreading their legs for him—but how many, and why did it matter? And moreover, what was it about them that had made him want them in turn?

What was she lacking?

"Then kiss me," she pressed, and hated the desperation peaking in her voice. "Make me damp."

Prince Jon studied her.

"Not if you're merely picturing the Red Viper."

They were at a standstill. She could see him flex his fingers quickly. Was she finally reaching him, or was he merely bored? Perhaps if she told him she was damp for him, it would work; it would pull him closer. Why could she not make herself say the words? It felt like she would be giving in to something, then. it would be a surrender, and she did not want to be conquered—oh, but she did, but not like this.

"His name is Oberyn. Call him Oberyn. And perhaps if you kiss me, I won't be able to picture Oberyn."

"If you are picturing the Red Viper, I won't kiss you," he countered.

He would not even give in to that.

"I suppose all Targaryens are so narcissistic," she snapped back, and there it was—anger flashing in his eyes. She saw him swallow.

"Narcissistic? How dare you—I have been nothing but kind to you," he shot back, stepping forward and then catching himself. His fists were clenched again, and his posture erect. He was looking down at her. His breath was tight, controlled. "Why do you wish to anger me?"

"I do not wish to anger you; it is merely an observation. You offered that I could seek heirs from any man I wished—yet when we agree that we will lay together, suddenly it can only be _you_ that I want." She bit her lip.

"Because it is personal, it is private, and there should only be _us_ in this room if we are to—to lay together," he shot back, and there was a hint of a flush on his cheeks.

"Then leave no room for Oberyn," she insisted, and she took a step closer. She would hunt him, then—so be it. She would get his surrender. His grey eyes looked almost black as she took another step closer, the flagstone cool beneath her blazing feet. "Make me think only of you, if it is so important to you."

He lifted his chin, eyes trailing down her body then up again. Fists tight. Posture held.

And then something changed. Suddenly, as though a breath had been released, Prince Jon relaxed. Unclenched his fists and jaw. He took a step toward her.

"I don't need to make you," he said quietly. "If you must beg me like this, then it must mean that you do not think of Oberyn at all."

"And what if I do?" Stupid fluttering useless heart making her voice shake like she was prey once more. "What if I have touched myself at night, thinking of his kiss?"

There it was again: that flash of something like amusement.

"You beg me," he repeated. "You must want me. This is just some game. You want me."

"I only  _want_ to keep the north safe," she insisted. "And this is how I can. You want this too. This is a strategy. This is no different than if we were in the solar, taking inventory of the granary, or reviewing the lords' holdings, or breaking bread with new allies."

"No different," he said quietly. "You believe it is no different? You genuinely believe it would have no meaning?"

She sensed she had hit a nerve. Perhaps this was her path. Like grasping for a silk-fine thread, she reached for it with the most delicate fingers.

So she shrugged.

"Its meaning would be in what we would accomplish by it," she said, crossing her arms. "Not in the act itself. But perhaps you are too Targaryen; perhaps you must make everything about you and your...your... _divinity_ ," she continued harshly, "...your  _specialness._ "

"I am _nothing_ like Viserys, _or_ Daenerys." His voice was low, hard: it would brook no quarrel.

"Then prove it. Do this for the north—not for yourself."

He tilted his head. He looked furious; she saw his shoulders rise and fall as he controlled his breathing. With trembling, numb fingers, she fisted the nightgown in her hands and began to lift it. Creamy muslin set aglow by candlelight masked her vision; and then boots were scuffing on flagstone and she was jolted back, the bumps of her spine hitting the poster of their bed, and the air was heady with the scent of his skin, and the leather of his tunic was cool against her belly.

"Fine," she heard him growl, and he pulled her nightdress the rest of the way.

Fabric fluttered to the floor in a heap. The fire in the hearth crackled. Her blood pounded in her ears. She was naked, and the wood of the poster was cold against her naked back, and Prince Jon was close enough that when he breathed out, it shuddered and fluttered against her collarbone, making her hair shiver against her skin.

She was eye-level with his jaw, and this close she could see a few hints of silver in the dark stubble. "Think of Oberyn if you must—but this is not love, this is not sex, if you are not thinking of me. Do not confuse it," he growled in her ear, and then her scalp was on fire as he gripped her hair and pulled, and then he was kissing her, sharp teeth grazing her lip, his other hand on her hip, strong, calloused fingers digging into the flesh almost painfully.

She was helpless; had she won or lost? She did not know, but she knew there was damp heat between her legs and she both ached for his touch _there_ and yet frantically hoped to hide it; she did not want him to believe he had won just yet. And yet—his hand left her hip and his grip tightened in her hair, and his lips were on her jaw, then neck, and every hair on her body was standing on-end as his hand slipped between her legs: a hand that was quick, sly, and certain. The rough fingers that had been digging into her hip were sliding against her lower lips, and then he pulled away.

His lips were redder, now, and his eyes were almost black. She pressed her lips together and set her jaw as he studied her. There was a high flush on his cheeks and a glimmer of victory in the darkness of his eyes.

"No different," he observed, "than counting grain."

She would not give him the satisfaction.

"No different," she seethed, but gasped sharply when those fingers pressed against her wet lips again, in a touch so soft and gentle that it was almost infuriating: it wasn't enough, but she would not beg him again, would not raise her hips, would not show any more signs of wanting him.

"I will keep that in mind when we count grain," he promised softly, sliding his fingers against her again—harder this time, hard enough to make her exhale hotly, make her briefly close her eyes.

She took the chance: quick as she could, she snatched at his belt and undid it hastily, heard it drop to the floor with a metallic _clunk_ , and then slipped her hand beneath his tunic. There was heat, then, and through the wool of his trousers she felt his hardness, ran her hand along it, and she watched greedily as his eyelids fluttered with the finest hint of pleasure.

"It seems I am not the only one who is excited by matters of business." His gasp was sharp when she gripped him through his trousers, and then his fingers curled, slipping just barely inside of her, and she bit her lip to stop herself from making any noise that would give her away—though the game, she knew, was up.

"Winning excites me," he countered in a rush, and then he was kissing her again, the hand in her hair releasing it and then pulling again. He pulled his other hand from between her legs, and gripped her hip with fingers that were slick with how much she wanted him.

"You have won _nothing_ ," she gasped as he pushed her back onto the bed—or did she fall back for him? He was standing before her, looking down at her, and she watched him study her body with dark, hungry eyes. "This is not about us."

He briefly met her eyes, after tearing his gaze from her breasts. There it was again: that infuriating flash of humor, a humor she had not known he possessed until today. "I may still think of Oberyn," she added furiously. The humor was gone, and he was angry again, and fierce; tightly coiled as a snake about to strike.

"You will not," he growled, briefly gripping her ankle, then releasing it. "You will _only_ think of us." She watched him pull the tunic, then shirt, over his head. His chest was bared to her, strong and hard and lean and marked with scars. She decided, dizzily, that later, she would climb on top of him and run her tongue over every one of them, and hold him down and make him gasp and beg as she did. A dark trail of coarse hair led down to the top of his trousers, and she looked away before he could comment on her gaze.

"Make me," she whispered, and she meant for it to be arch, to be defiant, but she knew what it was: she was begging him anyway. And then this conqueror was between her legs, and her knee brushed his side as he hovered over her, but he was so close that she was drowning, and he braced himself with one hand over her head as the other slipped between her legs once more. She looked away, scrunched her eyes shut, as he touched her so gently, too gently. She did not realize she had raised one leg and slung it over his hip to rest on the back of his thigh until he slipped his hand further inside, making her gasp. The room was humid, and the candles were burning away, and her gasps were shuddery and uneven.

She had almost considered thinking of Oberyn anyway, just to spite him, but she could think of no one but Jon. His palm was grinding against her now, and she was moving her hips even though she wished she wouldn't, and he was still kissing her, like taking long, slow swallows of dark red wine.

"This is not how you have heirs, I know it," she grit out against his lips. His laugh was breathless and still too much of a scoff, so she reached down between them and, without hesitation, gripped his length again. The scoff died between their lips and turned into a gasp, so she slipped her hand beneath the fabric and gripped his skin. It was more smooth than she would have guessed—it felt like silky velvet—and burning hot.

Jon pulled back from her.

"That's not how, either," he gasped. For a moment she moved her hand along his length as he hovered above her, their gazes locked, watching all the signs of his pleasure that he tried to hide.

"Show me," she commanded.

And he obeyed.

Somehow he had kicked off his boots and trousers and in a rush he was upon her again, kissing her neck, and his hard length brushed against the soft flesh inside her thigh, and her cunt was aching for him; she was writhing beneath him, begging him, fingers curling in his thick hair and pulling it free from the leather strap tying it back, and his hand was gripping her thigh, pulling it up to his waist, and then he was kissing her again, murmuring something against her lips—some oath; she could not quite hear it—and then their foreheads were brushing as she felt him against her wet lips...

His eyelashes fluttered against hers as he slowly pushed inside of her; at first it felt like too much and then it was painful. She gripped his arms and whined, so he pulled away—but then that was no good, then she needed him and pulled his hips closer by wrapping her legs more tightly round his hips—and then he was sliding inside of her again. Her nails dug half-moon crescents into his pale skin as he moved against her, too slowly.

"This is how," he gasped against her lips. His hair was tickling the vulnerable flesh of her belly, and their skin was growing damp, then slick. It was not enough, but no matter how she moved her hips, she could not quench the clawing throb just above where he was inside of her, and she longed to feel him grinding his palm against her again. She had had such inventive and strange desires before, but now her mind was blind to everything but finding a way to make him touch her _there_ again. His movements were growing faster, more rough. He was gripping her wrists, and the desperation and need in that grip made her clench around him, made her grind her hips against his, made her whine his name—and then— "Sansa," he gasped, and there was something blazing inside of her, and then he was kissing her, and then it was done.

**Jon**

He could not stop himself from dropping onto her briefly. Her skin was so soft and sweet, all the sweeter with her scent thick in the humid air, and his head was spinning. He buried his face against her neck, her damp skin against his lips so tantalizingly.

But he felt her tense beneath him; he had forgotten that in spite of her wantonness—had he imagined it, because he had desired it so badly?—this was not a thing she had done before.

The candles were nearly gone. It was dark in the room. He slid out of her slowly, watched her shut her eyes in pain. Her cheeks were flushed and when she opened her eyes, they were nearly navy, and copper curls were clinging messily to her temples and neck. He rolled off of her. The air was heavy with all of the things they had each revealed; he wondered if she finally understood what he had meant.

Where a veil had been fluttering before, there was now nothing.

"Are you hurting?" he asked, sitting up so that she would not see his face. He heard her shift on the mattress.

"...Yes," she admitted softly.

He had lost his mind; she had made him mad. He had been disallowing himself of thinking of this since the first day he had led her round the courtyard at Dragonstone on that horse; he had thought that by not thinking of it he had been salvaging something of himself, had been avoiding something, but instead he saw now it had merely been building, brick by brick, out of his line of sight. And the wildness and defiance she had shown—after being so cool, so remote, so untouchable—had broken the dam. He had been helpless; he had been conquered.

**Sansa**

Jon's back was to her. She watched him get off the bed and reach down with haste to pull on his trousers. In the low, golden light, he was paneled in molten gold, and shadows of dragons flickered as he walked to the hearth. She ached like she had been split open; she had never felt so raw between her legs, and yet there was still that nagging itch, that clawing need. She got up and crawled beneath the covers as she heard him at the basin by the hearth, heard the trickle of water.

"Wait," he said from the hearth. He was silhouetted by the fire as he came back toward the bed, holding a damp cloth. She shivered, hiding her feet beneath the blankets, as he crawled onto the bed, strong arms bracing himself as he came toward her. "Spread your legs."

It was a command but it did not scare her. She bit her lip and spread her legs, and he came close again and pressed the warm, damp cloth there. It felt good, felt like a relief, and she could not stop herself from resting her forehead against his bare shoulder, the skin still warm and damp with sweat.

"That's helping," she said softly. The gentleness made her throat tighten. After the wildness of moments before, where she had turned feral and strange to herself, she was once again the same Sansa she had always been.

Only, now... Jon was not the same as the prince, as the conqueror, she had come to know. This Jon, who gently pressed the warm cloth to her aching core and held her upright, his free hand gentle on her back, was not a conqueror or prince—or anything or anyone she had ever known. She did not know this man, yet she felt now that she had come to know him in a way she knew no one else. How could he be both so familiar to her and yet so much a stranger?

She grew sleepy as both the pain and the throb of need subsided; she pressed her forehead against him, allowed herself to relax. He at last pulled the cloth away when it had grown cool, and helped her back against the pillows. She slumped into them drowsily, and watched through half-closed eyes as he went back to the hearth and dropped the cloth back into the basin. The air smelled bitter and coppery, and heady and thick. The room grew darker as she heard him blow the other candles out, and then he was climbing back into bed beside her.

When he had settled into the mattress, an arm's length from her, she spoke again. "You were right," she said. "It has complicated things."

She felt him grow more still, more tense. She lifted up her head and saw him paneled in silver. "You have always seemed to me to be so many men inside one man—now I have met yet another man within you."

"You have met _me_ ," he said quietly. "But I am not certain I have met you."

All of Winterfell seemed to grow still. He lifted his head and they regarded each other. "I've glimpsed you, I think, at times," he continued, raising himself up on one elbow. "When you ran away, when I saw you look at—at _him_...I think that was you. But I am not sure."

She didn't know what to say. Beyond the slowly fading ache between her hips, she could still sense the memory of his seed inside of her. Now there was a new link between them, and she wondered if it would become a child.

"Perhaps you will, the next time we try," she said instead. His warm gaze drifted to her bare shoulder, then to her waist.

"No," he murmured, "I want to _now_."

He was kissing her again, and she felt him brush her belly as he climbed on top of her once more, but he was not hard yet, and she feared he did not want her anymore. He pulled from her lips, and she was about to speak, but he lowered his head and kissed her collarbone.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, but then his lips were grazing along the tender flesh of her breast, making her nipples harden, and she forgot what she had asked. Teeth on the hardened bud, calloused hand between her legs, rough palm grinding against her there, so slowly, so gently, and she was whimpering, fingers twined in his wild hair. She had thought it fleetingly, earlier—the idea of that solemn mouth on her wet lips—and now it was all she could think about, and yet—did anyone even do that? It would not get them heirs, it would do nothing but make things even more complicated, and yet—

"Please," she begged, and he quickly bit her nipple before releasing it. The air was cool on it and she was painfully aware of every inch of her flesh as his curls tickled her skin. And then—and _then_ —

His mouth was _there_. Rough grip on her hips, almost painful—she would bruise—and his tongue sliding back and forth, his pretty lips sometimes kissing her there the way he had kissed her earlier: like he was savoring the taste, like he was getting drunk on her on a heady summer evening. Perhaps if she had been more within herself she might have tried to speak of Oberyn, but she could not. She could think, she could not speak. Warmth was washing over her repeatedly, like waves, and she was rising, something was tightening, like she was about to sneeze—it was the strangest feeling—and she could not stop the sounds she was making, could not even think enough to be ashamed of them, and his fingers were digging into her skin and she was rising too high and—and—and—

It crashed over her and she shuddered helplessly, gripping his hair and rocking against him, trying to hold on as that lovely feeling began to ebb and she came down from the heights to which he had taken her.

She lay there as he raised his head up. She watched him rake a hand through his hair, which her own deft fingers had made wild. Across her body their eyes met once more. The world was buzzing in color and beauty—it all looked different, as though she had inhaled something made of magic. Husband, she thought dazedly, staring at him, his lips slick with her desire. She watched him wipe his mouth, and it made that helpless bird within her flutter lazily; she would think of that again and again, the next time he kissed her cunt.

"Come here," she commanded, and he obeyed her again. He crawled up her body and dropped next to her, their hot flesh burning each other against the chill of the room at night. He held her close to his chest, and though she longed to lay awake and turn each moment over in her mind, examining it from all angles—she slipped almost at once into sleep.

**Oberyn**

He had never thought he would go north; he had never thought he'd see the north at all. At night, with the moon turning it all silver, he could almost love it, could almost see its tangled, barren beauty. After all, it was _her_ home—and he could not forget this, that he was taking her from her home. The Targaryen general might have given her the small gift of returning her to her childhood home, but how could she ever go home when she was still a prisoner?

He had thought, each time he allowed himself to lay down and rest, of the Targaryen general cloaking her in the Sept. He had thought of her lips against his, of how sweet she had smelled, of how terrified yet fierce she had been when she had come to his cell, fire in her hair and ice in her eyes. She had saved him—this woman who had been a prisoner since she had been a child—and now he would save her. He could not be happy in Sunspear, even when they overthrew the Targaryen queen, knowing that he had left this gentle, kind, and battered woman alone with the enemy. He could not allow it.

And thus he was going north, promising Arianne that he would return with Sansa Stark. Arianne had understood; she understood these things and had promised him she would need the time to build their allies anyway. _Save her,_ Arianne had told him, _from the dragons. We will take down each dragon, until the world is safe at last._

It would be easy to kill Viserys, and Oberyn knew he would be the one to do it. It would be easy to kill Daenerys, though he was certain that that justice belonged to Arianne.

It would be easy to save Sansa—but it would not be easy to kill the Targaryen general. Oberyn would not name him, for it would only make it harder for him. The Targaryen general had dropped those keys before his cell not long before Sansa had used them to free him—so had the general meant to free him?

It was not so straightforward; this was not entirely vengeance, justice. This would be murder.

Oberyn touched his swordbelt. He was only weeks away from Winterfell now.

 


	7. a damned saint; an honorable villain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I added another chapter. Brevity is the soul of wit; I am witless therefore!

 

_**Sansa** _

Sansa awoke to a blast of cold air, and raised her head to see what had awoken her. The bedding beside her was still warm, and Jon's strong back was to her, turned ivory by the morning light. He was dressing, tightening the belt of his trousers, and glanced back over his shoulder at her.

"You should rise," he said, before turning back to the task.

"Is it late?" Sansa slumped back into the pillows. Jon was pulling his tunic over his head now, another fresh distance between them.

There was a dull ache between her legs that felt curiously pale; it did not seem sharp or present enough for what they had done. The fire and emotion that had characterized the night before was gone. In its place was slight shame for how wanton she had acted, and an inability to look directly into Jon's eyes—and an inability to examine directly any of the things they had done.

"No, it's early still," said Jon, as he buckled his belt. "But we have much to do." He turned to face her—though she noticed that he could not look directly at her, either. His gaze lingered on the furs piled on top of her, rather than on her. He had warned her last night that the act would complicate things between them, and she had not understood until now. She both felt too close and too far from him; there was a sense of imbalance and discomfort that was different from the tension they had had before they lay together.

Still, it seemed a good sign that he had said, 'we.' She would let that hope blossom. She covered herself more with the furs and sat up.

"Such as?" she prompted. Jon briefly met her eyes, then looked away hastily. He turned from her, and she watched him self-consciously rake a hand over his hair. He had already retied it at the nape of his neck, as though smoothing out any signs of the passion of the night before.

"We need a plan beyond having heirs, if we're really going to do this." He paused in the doorway. "And you have much to learn about training an army, and I have much to learn about the north. Get dressed. We will eat in the maester's tower."

_**Jon** _

Jon had awoken long before his wife, and had lay in the silver pre-dawn, listening to her breathe deeply and considering his choices. Her back had been to him, her hair a wild tangle splayed across the pillows.

He had never woken up with a woman before.

He had only known quick, stolen moments under the cover of darkness. After all, he had always been on the move and had never faced the possibility of building anything with a woman so he had not sought it, had not even considered it. It had been simply beyond his purview, yet here he was. He had no choice but to build something with Sansa—whether it be a wall between them or something happier.

For a moment his impulse had been to rise early and leave her there. Panic had choked him because he did not know how to do this; he had never done it before. And he had not been himself with someone—anyone—since his mother. This was something he knew and understood about himself and the course his life had taken, and he counted himself lucky that he saw himself for what he really was: a man who was called valorous yet had not yet faced the things he truly feared, a man who knew he had come from a long line of selfish, destructive people yet whose own capacity for selfishness and destructiveness had not truly been tested.

He had believed himself so different from Daenerys and Viserys, but he had never had to find out.

So, laying there beside his new wife, Jon thought about the paths that lay before him. He could either simply profit from the distance that marrying Sansa Stark had bought him—a choice that Viserys would have certainly made, would he ever be able to see past grand illusions of his own destiny—or he could risk his own vulnerability, could risk planting a tree whose growth he might not live to see. He could be selfish, could live out the rest of his days cosseted and hidden from his uncle and aunt in the north—or he could do his best to undo what he and his family had done to Westeros.

It would have been so easy to choose the first path, to shut out his wife and blame it on the awkwardness of their coupling, to simply use her and the north. It was tempting. It would mean he'd get to have something closer to a normal and quiet life than he had ever imagined he would get. He'd have time to read, time to wander through the snowy woods on horseback alone, and let his mind wander. It would mean a break—at last—from endless planning and strategizing, endless hedging of bets, endless anxiety coiled round the base of his spine (what if he had missed something his planning? What if he had not looked at every possibility? What if he failed? What if, what if, what if...). It would mean escape from the life he had come to realize was killing him.

But it would mean cowardice and selfishness in its own way, perhaps not in a Targaryen way but a selfishness nonetheless. And in so many ways he saw that he had been cowardly, had been selfish. The continent was scarred between the Targaryens and the Lannisters, and half of it because neither side would take real responsibility for their crimes. He'd always been the first to rush into battle, the rare general that fought on the front lines—why could he not take that same valor and use it here? Yet now he saw it was not valor that had pushed him to the thick of danger but a self-destructiveness that would have made his mother weep with sorrow.

And besides, his wife would put him to shame. She had already shamed him—for after all of the things that had been done to her, all of the pain she had experienced, she still wanted to save the people who had harmed her. And something about this pushed through his selfishness and self-loathing like green shoots through snow. He could not do the selfish thing, not when he was faced with Sansa's valor.

In the maester's tower, he was greeted with shelves and shelves of books. Piles of maps. Swinging models of the stars that glinted in the grey light. A servant brought a tray laden with food—heavy, simple northern food, none of the delicacies of Essos to which he had grown accustomed—and he waited for Sansa, though his heart was pounding and he longed to ride off on his horse and forget he had ever agreed to any of this.

_**Sansa** _

She had taken care to dress today, but it was for different reasons than she had ever taken such care before. Today she dressed simply to be pretty, and she felt like a fool all the while that she did it. She self-consciously braided her hair in front of her looking glass, wondering if the dusky lavender dress she wore was her prettiest and wishing she had another person to advise her. Then in turn she hated herself for wanting Jon to find her pretty; this was not about them at all, she kept telling herself, and yet it still was.

She could not help but hope. When she had awoken she had been certain by the way that Jon avoided her eyes that he did not wish to continue with their plan, had been certain that he would push her away—and she would not entirely be able to blame him, for she too felt strange and awkward—but then he had wanted to push forward and hope had blossomed within her. And here she was: foolishly, girlishly preparing to see him, though he had already seen all of her and it would make no difference.

She left their rooms and made her way to the maester's tower, grateful for the clarity that the bitingly cold air brought. It was still early and Winterfell seemed quieter, calmer, than it usually did. The servants had only just broken their fasts and were only beginning their daily tasks. Smoke was coming from the maester's tower, signaling a roaring fire, and from the courtyard she could see into the diamond-paneled glass windows. Jon was perusing the shelves of rare books, hands lingering over certain titles. She was nervous but she was also curious of what his plans were; the curiosity overcame the nervousness and she pushed open the heavy wooden door.

Jon was still at the shelves when she entered the room. He glanced at her when she entered, but his gaze didn't linger.

"There's food," he greeted simply, nodding back over his shoulder. The table at the center of the room had a tray of bread, blackened bacon, and mugs of bitter ale. Jon had not yet touched the food.

"You don't find the food to your liking?" she asked, sitting down at the table. She might have normally cut off a slice of the warm bread for herself, but she could not eat. 

"I was waiting for you," Jon said. He slid a book off the shelf and, with care, flipped it open.

"What are you looking for?"

Jon took a moment to study the tome.

"Anything pertaining to the north's history or the running of Winterfell," he replied, shutting the book and setting it on a pile on the table. "I've found documents on the yearly harvests, and on the taxes collected from the bannermen. And," he continued, gesturing to the wall, "a very thorough—but subjective—history of trade relations throughout the north."

On the wall hung a map of the north, with various maesters' scrawled notes, that was now dotted with silver pins. A thick, messy-looking book lay open on the narrow table beneath the map. "You'll have to help me validate it," Jon added, before taking his chair and sitting down. He took some bread for himself and tore it. "I expect you were educated on such things."

"What do you want to know?"

Briefly their eyes met over the table, but Jon looked down again to his bread. It seemed they both existed in two worlds: one which contained the impossibility of what had happened last night, and one which did not. If their eyes met, if they let a look linger too long, these two worlds might eclipse; they might lose control again. She might beg him wantonly to touch her again and he might tear her dress from her. The thought made her shiver. 

"Everything. Who are the families who've been taxed more, who are the families who've gotten special treatment? Has the north ever had a standing army, and if so, what can we learn from them? Who holds the most power in the north? Who has the most gold, who has the most influence, and who has the most men? Who might have had close relations with the Lannisters? We can't make plans until we know everything."

"You're in luck. Arya used to tease me for being horrible at maths, but I always knew the most about the families of Westeros and how their gold and blood flowed," she said. 

"A good skill for a survivor to have," he conceded. "Though we'll still need to find someone good at maths for the accounts and taxes."

"What were you good at? As a child, I mean," she clarified. It could be written off as a strategic question, but it was selfish. The man who had done  _those things_ to her last night was, in so many ways, a stranger. Was it better or worse that she did not know him? It might be better, yet she could not help herself but hunt for the meaning between them. It seemed impossible that he could have made any woman feel like  _that_ ; it seemed impossible that any man's touches might have felt like  _that._  Jon looked down at the table, apparently uncomfortable.

"Maths, actually," he admitted, "and history."

"Did you always know you were going to be a general?"

"I didn't," Jon said. He took a long swig of the bitter ale. "They wanted me to be marriageable. The plan was to take Dorne that way. I'm about the age of Arianne Martell. But I started to see that if I presented any threat to Viserys, it would be dangerous for me or my children. They wanted little heirs to marry to Viserys' heirs, but then they'd always be competition in Viserys' eyes."

"I'm surprised he didn't want to wed you to Daenerys, given the Targaryen beliefs on lineage," Sansa remarked, briefly forgetting the tension between them. Jon's brow, the scarred one, quirked in something like bitter amusement.

"First he wanted to marry Dany, but to her credit, she didn't want to just be a queen. She's become a conqueror; she can't go back to being powerless. We made the argument to Viserys—and others did, it wasn't just us—that he would have to compromise on lineage if he wanted Westeros to bow to him. So he thought Dany and I would marry, after I had finished helping him overthrow the Lannisters and secure the kingdom. He was still making noise about it but Dany and I always planned to find ways around it. So I think he has settled on the fact that his children will be part Targaryen and mine and Dany's children will be part Targaryen, and that will be close enough for him until his dynasty is more established."

They fell silent for a moment as they ate and thought.

"Amazing to me," she began after a while, "is that women are so powerless, and yet what everyone wants is heirs to establish power and safety. We're the only way to lasting power in Westeros and yet we are given no power of our own, unless we take it. Is it any different in Essos?"

"Not really," Jon said. "Though I think peasant women have more mobility there than here. More ways to make gold without a husband, more ways to survive. Here it's the brothels or the Sept." He nodded to the map. "But perhaps we can change that."

"How?" Sansa laughed.

"Put someone in power who wants it," Jon said.

"Well, that is the question—even if we did succeed, who could we possibly put in power?"

Jon got up and checked the door. No one was there. Following his train of thought, Sansa began checking the nooks and crannies of the room—she even looked inside one of the heavy wooden trunks—as Jon locked the windows after scanning for anyone passing by the tower. When they were satisfied it was empty, Jon went to the map on the wall.

"Westeros hasn't always been ruled by one king," he began. He ran his fingers over the lines in the map that divided the seven kingdoms. "There's at least one powerful family in every kingdom. What if we had a council of rulers, rather than one ruler?"

"No, the whole reason that we're no longer ruled by multiple kings is because we were so divided. It was too easy to sweep the seven kingdoms. We need to be united. Otherwise those lines serve as borders," Sansa countered, rising from the table and going to stand with Jon before the map. "Not every kingdom is ideally situated for a strong harvest, or for good military defense. Some peoples would starve while others would constantly be under attack. Borders would be closed and would divide families. It would only do evil."

"But it was too easy to sweep the seven kingdoms with one ruler," Jon argued, advancing on her. "We had to overthrow one ruler, in one place. No one rose up against us. How could they? Besides, who would you have on the throne?" 

"We need the northern lords, first. We have much to do," Sansa said, going to the map and touching one of the silver pins. She heard Jon clear his throat behind her, and she thought again of the night before, felt her neck flush. "And we need the security of an heir." The words were flat, unaffected, but she was a forest fire as she heard Jon step closer behind her. 

_**Jon** _

She was touching the pins he had placed with an elegant hand that trembled faintly. _That is not how you have heirs, I know it._ He could still taste her on his lips this morning, but the animal desire had abated in the cool morning light—yet here it was again. He could see her neck was flushed; he longed to feel her beating pulse beneath his lips. He heard her draw in a sharp breath as he stepped closer, experimentally. His blood was pounding in his ears. She'd worn a different dress, and he wondered if she had worn it for him. "You were right," she said suddenly, in the ringing silence of the room. "It has changed things." 

"You said it would be no different."

"I was wrong," she admitted tersely, glancing back so briefly at him. "The things that we did last night..."

He could not help it; he had been born to fight, born to conquer. It was in his blood, and was the worst of him. He studied the soft, vulnerable flesh of her neck. Her unbound hair was pushed over her shoulder. He found it hard to think of building something, of doing the honorable thing, of any of the righteous things he had promised himself when he had not been dizzied with the sight of her soft skin. 

"You said this was not about us," he pointed out, but all the same he was advancing on her, until her hair tickled his lips and forehead, until if he reached out he could have touched her waist. "You begged me to do those things." 

She turned around in anger, but then her hand brushed his chest and he could not help himself: he wound one fist in her hair, the other at her waist, and backed her against the map. Silver pins clattered to the floor; he noticed and did not care. Her eyelashes were fluttering, and then her lithe arms were circling him, her lips sliding against his. "Beg me again," he said against her lips, as she gasped. 

"For heirs?" 

"Aye, we'll call it that—"

—there was a knock at the door and they broke apart, flushed and angry with each other though neither could quite say why; they were each embarrassed and impatient for night to come. 

"I've come to clear your plates, Prince Jon and Lady Sansa," came a servant's voice through the door. Sansa smoothed her hair, and would not meet his eyes, so Jon turned away and cleared his throat. 

"Come in," he said. The door opened and the servant stepped in timidly into the searing atmosphere. When she had left, arms laden with their breakfast plates, the room still was too warm. 

_**Sansa** _

"We must have some rules," Sansa said desperately, going to the window and hugging herself. 

"Rules?"

"You cannot make me so wild as this." She hated the admission, but she had to preserve herself somehow. She would not have the whole world know how Prince Jon could so easily reduce her to  _begging_ him. "It can only happen at night." 

She heard him scoff, and she turned back to him. He was regarding her with something like amusement. 

"Did you think it would happen here?" He cast a scarred hand to the table between them. "This is hardly a place to make heirs." 

She kept her mouth shut, but he could so easily read her. And for a moment there was a flash of possibility—he might cross the room; he might take her wrists; she might lay before him on the table—that she fiercely turned from. 

"Rules," she repeated wildly, desperately.

 

 

 


End file.
